THE  GREATER  INCLINATION 


THE  TOUCHSTONE 


THE  GREATER  INCLINATION 


THE  TOUCHSTONE 

BY 

EDITH   WHARTON 


NEW    YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1914 


MOFFITT  -  UGL 

THE   GREATER   INCLINATION 
COPYRIGHT,    1899,   BY   CHARLES   SCRIBNER's   SONS 


THE   TOUCHSTONE 
COPYRIGHT,    1900,   BY  CHARLES   SCRIBNER  8  SONS 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS 

THE  GREATER  INCLINATION 

LiSRAI 
The  Muse's  Tragedy   .      .'      .....  \    •  r  ,' 

II 
A  Journey  ..........  27 


III 

The  Pelican      ......  49 

IV 

Souls  Belated   ........  83 


A  Coward 


VI 

The  Twilight  of  the  God    .......     159 

VII 

A  Cup  of  Cold  Water  ........      183 

VIII 

The  Portrait     .... 


THE  TOUCHSTONE 

255 


THE    GREATER    INCLINATION 


THE    MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

DANYERS  afterwards  liked  to  fancy  that  he 
had  recognized  Mrs.  Anerton  at  once;  but 
that,  of  course,  was  absurd,  since  he  had 
seen  no  portrait  of  her — she  affected  a  strict  anonymity, 
refusing  even  her  photograph  to  the  most  privileged 
— and  from  Mrs.  Memorall,  whom  he  revered  and  cul 
tivated  as  her  friend,  he  had  extracted  but  the  one  im 
pressionist  phrase:  "Oh,  well,  she's  like  one  of  those 
old  prints  where  the  lines  have  the  value  of  color." 

He  was  almost  certain,  at  all  events,  that  he  had  been 
thinking  of  Mrs.  Anerton  as  he  sat  over  his  breakfast 
in  the  empty  hotel  restaurant,  and  that,  looking  up  on 
the  approach  of  the  lady  who  seated  herself  at  the  table 
near  the  window,  he  had  said  to  himself,  "  That  might  be 
she." 

Ever  since  his  Harvard  days — he  was  still  young 
enough  to  think  of  them  as  immensely  remote — Dan- 
yers  had  dreamed  of  Mrs.  Anerton,  the  Silvia  of  Vin 
cent  Rendle's  immortal  sonnet-cycle,  the  Mrs.  A.  of  the 
Life  and  Letters.  Her  name  was  enshrined  in  some  of 
the  noblest  English  verse  of  the  nineteenth  century — 
and  of  all  past  or  future  centuries,  as  Danyers,  from  the 
stand-point  of  a  maturer  judgment,  still  believed.  The 
first  reading  of  certain  poems — of  the  Antinous,  the 


THE    MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

Pia  Tolomei,  the  Sonnets  to  Silvia, — had  been  epochs  in 
Danyers's  growth,  and  the  verse  seemed  to  gain  in  mel 
lowness,  in  amplitude,  in  meaning  as  one  brought  to  its 
interpretation  more  experience  of  life,  a  finer  emotional 
sense.  Where,  in  his  boyhood,  he  had  felt  only  the  per 
fect,  the  almost  austere  beauty  of  form,  the  subtle  in 
terplay  of  vowel-sounds,  the  rush  and  fulness  of  lyric 
emotion,  he  now  thrilled  to  the  close-packed  signifi 
cance  of  each  line,  the  allusiveness  of  each  word — his 
imagination  lured  hither  and  thither  on  fresh  trails  of 
thought,  and  perpetually  spurred  by  the  sense  that,  be 
yond  what  he  had  already  discovered,  more  marvellous 
regions  lay  waiting  to  be  explored.  Danyers  had  writ 
ten,  at  college,  the  prize  essay  on  Rendle's  poetry 
(it  chanced  to  be  the  moment  of  the  great  man's 
death);  he  had  fashioned  the  fugitive  verse  of  his  own 
storm-and-stress  period  on  the  forms  which  Rendle  had 
first  given  to  English  metre;  and  when  two  years  later 
the  Life  and  Letters  appeared,  and  the  Silvia  of  the 
sonnets  took  substance  as  Mrs.  A.,  he  had  included  in 
his  worship  of  Rendle  the  woman  who  had  inspired  not 
only  such  divine  verse  but  such  playful,  tender,  incom 
parable  prose. 

Danyers  never  forgot  the  day  when  Mrs.  Memorall 

happened  to  mention  that  she  knew  Mrs.  Anerton.  He 

had  known  Mrs.  Memorall  for  a  year  or  more,  and  had 

somewhat  contemptuously  classified  her  as  the  kind  of 

[2] 


THE     MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

woman  who  runs  cheap  excursions  to  celebrities;  when 
one  afternoon  she  remarked,  as  she  put  a  second  lump 
of  sugar  in  his  tea: 

"Is  it  right  this  time?  You're  almost  as  particular 
as  Mary  Anerton." 

"Mary  Anerton?" 

"Yes,  I  never  can  remember  how  she  likes  her  tea. 
Either  it's  lemon  with  sugar,  or  lemon  without  sugar, 
or  cream  without  either,  and  whichever  it  is  must  be 
put  into  the  cup  before  the  tea  is  poured  in;  and  if 
one  hasn't  remembered,  one  must  begin  all  over 
again.  I  suppose  it  was  Vincent  Rendle's  way  of  tak 
ing  his  tea  and  has  become  a  sacred  rite." 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Anerton?"  cried  Danyers,  dis 
turbed  by  this  careless  familiarity  with  the  habits  of 
his  divinity. 

"'And  did  I  once  see  Shelley  plain?'  Mercy,  yes! 
She  and  I  were  at  school  together — she's  an  Ameri 
can,  you  know.  We  were  at  a  pension  near  Tours  for 
nearly  a  year;  then  she  went  back  to  New  York, 
and  I  didn't  see  her  again  till  after  her  marriage. 
She  and  Anerton  spent  a  winter  in  Rome  while  my 
husband  was  attached  to  our  Legation  there,  and 
she  used  to  be  with  us  a  great  deal."  Mrs.  Memorall 
smiled  reminiscently.  "It  was  the  winter." 

"The  winter  they  first  met  ?" 

"Precisely — but  unluckily  I  left  Rome  just  before 

' 


THE     MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

the  meeting  took  place.  Wasn't  it  too  bad?  I  might 
have  been  in  the  Life  and  Letters.  You  know  he 
mentions  that  stupid  Madame  Vodki,  at  whose  house 
he  first  saw  her." 

"And  did  you  see  much  of  her  after  that?" 

"Not  during  Rendle's  life.  You  know  she  has  lived 
in  Europe  almost  entirely,  and  though  I  used  to  see 
her  off  and  on  when  I  went  abroad,  she  was  always 
so  engrossed,  so  preoccupied,  that  one  felt  one  wasn't 
wanted.  The  fact  is,  she  cared  only  about  his  friends 
— she  separated  herself  gradually  from  all  her  own 
people.  Now,  of  course,  it's  different;  she's  desper 
ately  lonely;  she's  taken  to  writing  to  me  now  and 
then;  and  last  year,  when  she  heard  I  was  going 
abroad,  she  asked  me  to  meet  her  in  Venice,  and  I 
spent  a  week  with  her  there." 

"And  Rendle?" 

Mrs.  Memorall  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  I 
never  was  allowed  a  peep  at  him;  none  of  her  old 
friends  met  him,  except  by  accident.  Ill-natured  peo 
ple  say  that  was  the  reason  she  kept  him  so  long.  If 
one  happened  in  while  he  was  there,  he  was  hustled 
into  Anerton's  study,  and  the  husband  mounted 
guard  till  the  inopportune  visitor  had  departed.  An- 
erton,  you  know,  was  really  much  more  ridiculous 
about  it  than  his  wife.  Mary  was  too  clever  to  lose 
her  head,  or  at  least  to  show  she'd  lost  it — but 

[*] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

Anerton  couldn't  conceal  his  pride  in  the  conquest 
I've  seen  Mary  shiver  when  he  spoke  of  Rendle  as 
our  poet.  Rendle  always  had  to  have  a  certain  seat  at 
the  dinner-table,  away  from  the  draught  and  not  too 
near  the  fire,  and  a  box  of  cigars  that  no  one  else 
was  allowed  to  touch,  and  a  writing-table  of  his  own 
in  Mary's  sitting-room — and  Anerton  was  always  tell 
ing  one  of  the  great  man's  idiosyncrasies:  how  he 
never  would  cut  the  ends  of  his  cigars,  though  An 
erton  himself  had  given  him  a  gold  cutter  set  with 
a  star-sapphire,  and  how  untidy  his  writing-table  was, 
and  how  the  house-maid  had  orders  always  to  bring 
the  waste-paper  basket  to  her  mistress  before  empty 
ing  it,  lest  some  immortal  verse  should  be  thrown 
into  the  dust-bin." 

"The  Anertons  never  separated,  did  they?" 

"Separated?  Bless  you,  no.  He  never  would  have 
left  Rendle !  And  besides,  he  was  very  fond  of  his 
wife." 

"And  she?" 

"Oh,  she  saw  he  was  the  kind  of  man  who  was 
fated  to  make  himself  ridiculous,  and  she  never  in 
terfered  with  his  natural  tendencies." 

From  Mrs.  Memorall,  Danyers  further  learned  that 

Mrs.   Anerton,  whose   husband   had   died   some  years 

before  her  poet,  now  divided  her  life  between  Rome, 

where  she  had  a  small  apartment,  and  England,  where 

[5] 


THE    MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

she  occasionally  went  to  stay  with  those  of  her  friends 
who  had  been  Rendle's.  She  had  been  engaged,  for 
some  time  after  his  death,  in  editing  some  juvenilia 
which  he  had  bequeathed  to  her  care;  but  that  task 
being  accomplished,  she  had  been  left  without  defi 
nite  occupation,  and  Mrs.  Memorall,  on  the  occasion 
of  their  last  meeting,  had  found  her  listless  and  out 
of  spirits. 

"She  misses  him  too  much — her  life  is  too  empty. 
I  told  her  so — I  told  her  she  ought  to  marry." 

"Oh!" 

"Why  not,  pray?  She's  a  young  woman  still — what 
many  people  would  call  young,"  Mrs.  Memorall  inter 
jected,  with  a  parenthetic  glance  at  the  mirror.  "Why 
not  accept  the  inevitable  and  begin  over  again?  All 
the  King's  horses  and  all  the  King's  men  won't  bring 
Rendle  to  life — and  besides,  she  didn't  marry  him 
when  she  had  the  chance." 

Danyers  winced  slightly  at  this  rude  fingering  of 
his  idol.  Was  it  possible  that  Mrs.  Memorall  did  not 
see  what  an  anti-climax  such  a  marriage  would  have 
been?  Fancy  Rendle  "making  an  honest  woman"  of 
Silvia;  for  so  society  would  have  viewed  it!  How  such 
a  reparation  would  have  vulgarized  their  past — it 
would  have  been  like  "restoring"  a  masterpiece;  and 
how  exquisite  must  have  been  the  perceptions  of  the 
woman  who,  in  defiance  of  appearances,  and  perhaps  of 
[6] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

her  own  secret  inclination,  chose  to  go  down  to  pos 
terity  as  Silvia  rather  than  as  Mrs.  Vincent  Rendle! 

Mrs.  Memorall,  from  this  day  forth,  acquired  an 
interest  in  Danyers's  eyes.  She  was  like  a  volume  of 
unindexed  and  discursive  memoirs,  through  which  he 
patiently  plodded  in  the  hope  of  finding  embedded 
amid  layers  of  dusty  twaddle  some  precious  allusion 
to  the  subject  of  his  thought.  When,  some  months 
later,  he  brought  out  his  first  slim  volume,  in  which 
the  remodelled  college  essay  on  Rendle  figured 
among  a  dozen  somewhat  overstudied  "apprecia 
tions,"  he  offered  a  copy  to  Mrs.  Memorall;  who 
surprised  him,  the  next  time  they  met,  with  the  an 
nouncement  that  she  had  sent  the  book  to  Mrs.  An- 
erton. 

Mrs.  Anerton  in  due  time  wrote  to  thank  her 
friend.  Danyers  was  privileged  to  read  the  few  lines 
in  which,  in  terms  that  suggested  the  habit  of  "ac 
knowledging"  similar  tributes,  she  spoke  of  the  au 
thor's  " feeling  and  insight,"  and  was  "so  glad  of  the 
opportunity,"  etc.  He  went  away  disappointed,  with 
out  clearly  knowing  what  else  he  had  expected. 

The  following  spring,  when  he  went  abroad,  Mrs. 
Memorall  oifered  him  letters  to  everybody,  from  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury  to  Louise  Michel.  She  did 
not  include  Mrs.  Anerton,  however,  and  Danyers 
knew,  from  a  previous  conversation,  that  Silvia  ob- 

[7] 


THE    MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

jected  to  people  who  " brought  letters."  He  knew 
also  that  she  travelled  during  the  summer,  and  was 
unlikely  to  return  to  Rome  before  the  term  of  his 
holiday  should  be  reached,  and  the  hope  of  meeting 
her  was  not  included  among  his  anticipations. 

The  lady  whose  entrance  broke  upon  his  solitary 
repast  in  the  restaurant  of  the  Hotel  Villa  d'Este 
had  seated  herself  in  such  a  way  that  her  profile 
was  detached  against  the  window;  and  thus  viewed, 
her  domed  forehead,  small  arched  nose,  and  fastidi 
ous  lip  suggested  a  silhouette  of  Marie  Antoinette. 
In  the  lady's  dress  and  movements — in  the  very 
turn  of  her  wrist  as  she  poured  out  her  coffee — 
Danyers  thought  he  detected  the  same  fastidious 
ness,  the  same  air  of  tacitly  excluding  the  obvious 
and  unexceptional.  Here  was  a  woman  who  had  been 
much  bored  and  keenly  interested.  The  waiter  brought 
her  a  Secolo,  and  as  she  bent  above  it  Danyers  noticed 
that  the  hair  rolled  back  from  her  forehead  was  turn 
ing  gray;  but  her  figure  was  straight  and  slender,  and 
she  had  the  invaluable  gift  of  a  girlish  back. 

The  rush  of  Anglo-Saxon  travel  had  not  set  to 
ward  the  lakes,  and  with  the  exception  of  an  Italian 
family  or  two,  and  a  hump-backed  youth  with  an 
abbe,  Danyers  and  the  lady  had  the  marble  halls  of 
the  Villa  d'Este  to  themselves. 

When  he  returned  from  his  morning  ramble  among 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

the  hills  he  saw  her  sitting  at  one  of  the  little  tables 
at  the  edge  of  the  lake.  She  was  writing,  and  a  heap 
of  books  and  newspapers  lay  on  the  table  at  her  side. 
That  evening  they  met  again  in  the  garden.  He  had 
strolled  out  to  smoke  a  last  cigarette  before  dinner, 
and  under  the  black  vaulting  of  ilexes,  near  the  steps 
leading  down  to  the  boat-landing,  he  found  her  lean 
ing  on  the  parapet  above  the  lake.  At  the  sound  of 
his  approach  she  turned  and  looked  at  him.  She  had 
thrown  a  black  lace  scarf  over  her  head,  and  in  this 
sombre  setting  her  face  seemed  thin  and  unhappy. 
He  remembered  afterwards  that  her  eyes,  as  they 
met  his,  expressed  not  so  much  sorrow  as  profound 
discontent. 

To  his  surprise  she  stepped  toward  him  with  a 
detaining  gesture. 

"Mr.  Lewis  Danyers,  I  believe?" 

He  bowed. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Anerton.  I  saw  your  name  on  the  vis 
itors'  list  and  wished  to  thank  you  for  an  essay  on 
Mr.  Rendle's  poetry — or  rather  to  tell  you  how  much 
I  appreciated  it.  The  book  was  sent  to  me  last  winter 
by  Mrs.  Memorall." 

She  spoke  in  even  melancholy  tones,  as  though 
the  habit  of  perfunctory  utterance  had  robbed  her 
voice  of  more  spontaneous  accents;  but  her  smile 
was  charming. 

[9] 


THE    MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

They  sat  down  on  a  stone  bench  under  the  ilexes, 
and  she  told  him  how  much  pleasure  his  essay  had 
given  her.  She  thought  it  the  best  in  the  book — she 
was  sure  he  had  put  more  of  himself  into  it  than 
into  any  other;  was  she  not  right  in  conjecturing  that 
he  had  been  very  deeply  influenced  by  Mr.  Rendle's 
poetry?  Pour  comprendre  il  faut  aimer,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that,  in  some  ways,  he  had  penetrated  the  poet's 
inner  meaning  more  completely  than  any  other  critic. 
There  were  certain  problems,  of  course,  that  he  had 
left  untouched;  certain  aspects  of  that  many-sided 
mind  that  he  had  perhaps  failed  to  seize — 

"But  then  you  are  young,"  she  concluded  gently, 
"and  one  could  not  wish  you,  as  yet,  the  experience 
that  a  fuller  understanding  would  imply." 

II 

SHE  stayed  a  month  at  Villa  d'Este,  and  Danyers 
was   with    her   daily.    She    showed   an  unaffected 
pleasure  in  his  society;  a  pleasure  so  obviously  founded 
on  their  common  veneration  of  Rendle,  that  the  young 
man  could  enjoy  it  without  fear  of  fatuity.  At  first  he 
was  merely  one  more  grain  of  frankincense  on  the  altar 
of  her  insatiable  divinity;  but  gradually  a  more  per 
sonal  note  crept  into  their  intercourse.  If  she  still  liked 
him  only  because  he  appreciated  Rendle,  she  at  least 
[10] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

perceptibly  distinguished  him  from  the  herd  of  Rendle's 
appreciators. 

Her  attitude  toward  the  great  man's  memory  struck 
Danyers  as  perfect.  She  neither  proclaimed  nor  dis 
avowed  her  identity.  She  was  frankly  Silvia  to  those 
who  knew  and  cared;  but  there  was  no  trace  of  the 
Egeria  in  her  pose.  She  spoke  often  of  Rendle's  books, 
but  seldom  of  himself;  there  was  no  posthumous  conju 
gality,  no  use  of  the  possessive  tense,  in  her  abounding 
reminiscences.  Of  the  master's  intellectual  life,  of  his 
habits  of  thought  and  work,  she  never  wearied  of  talk 
ing.  She  knew  the  history  of  each  poem ;  by  what  scene 
or  episode  each  image  had  been  evoked;  how  many 
times  the  words  in  a  certain  line  had  been  transposed; 
how  long  a  certain  adjective  had  been  sought,  and  what 
had  at  last  suggested  it;  she  could  even  explain  that 
one  impenetrable  line,  the  torment  of  critics,  the  joy 
of  detractors,  the  last  line  of  The  Old  Odysseus. 

Danyers  felt  that  in  talking  of  these  things  she  was 
no  mere  echo  of  Rendle's  thought.  If  her  identity  had 
appeared  to  be  merged  in  his  it  was  because  they 
thought  alike,  not  because  he  had  thought  for  her.  Pos 
terity  is  apt  to  regard  the  women  wrhom  poets  have 
sung  as  chance  pegs  on  which  they  hung  their  gar 
lands;  but  Mrs.  Anerton's  mind  was  like  some  fertile 
garden  wherein,  inevitably,  Rendle's  imagination  had 
rooted  itself  and  flowered.  Danyers  began  to  see  how 

[11] 


THE    MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

many  threads  of  his  complex  mental  tissue  the  poet 
had  owed  to  the  blending  of  her  temperament  with 
his;  in  a  certain  sense  Silvia  had  herself  created  the 
Sonnets  to  Silvia. 

To  be  the  custodian  of  Rendle's  inner  self,  the  door, 
as  it  were,  to  the  sanctuary,  had  at  first  seemed  to 
Danyers  so  comprehensive  a  privilege  that  he  had  the 
sense,  as  his  friendship  with  Mrs.  Anerton  advanced, 
of  forcing  his  way  into  a  life  already  crowded.  What 
room  was  there,  among  such  towering  memories,  for 
so  small  an  actuality  as  his  ?  Quite  suddenly,  after  this, 
he  discovered  that  Mrs.  Memorall  knew  better:  his 
fortunate  friend  was  bored  as  well  as  lonely. 

"You  have  had  more  than  any  other  woman!"  he 
had  exclaimed  to  her  one  day;  and  her  smile  flashed  a 
derisive  light  on  his  blunder.  Fool  that  he  was,  not  to 
have  seen  that  she  had  not  had  enough!  That  she 
was  young  still — do  years  count? — tender,  human,  a 
woman ;  that  the  living  have  need  of  the  living. 

After  that,  when  they  climbed  the  alleys  of  the 
hanging  park,  resting  in  one  of  the  little  ruined  tem 
ples,  or  watching,  through  a  ripple  of  foliage,  the  re 
mote  blue  flash  of  the  lake,  they  did  not  always  talk 
of  Rendle  or  of  literature.  She  encouraged  Danyers  to 
speak  of  himself;  to  confide  his  ambitions  to  her;  she 
asked  him  the  questions  which  are  the  wise  woman's 
substitute  for  advice. 

[12] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

"You  must  write/'  she  said,  administering  the  most 
exquisite  flattery  that  human  lips  could  give. 

Of  course  he  meant  to  write — why  not  to  do  some 
thing  great  in  his  turn?  His  best,  at  least;  with  the 
resolve,  at  the  outset,  that  his  best  should  be  the  best. 
Nothing  less  seemed  possible  with  that  mandate  in 
his  ears.  How  she  had  divined  him;  lifted  and  disen 
tangled  his  groping  ambitions;  laid  the  awakening 
touch  on  his  spirit  with  her  creative  Let  there  be  light! 

It  was  his  last  day  with  her,  and  he  was  feeling  very 
hopeless  and  happy. 

"You  ought  to  write  a  book  about  him"  she  went 
on  gently. 

Danyers  started;  he  was  beginning  to  dislike  Ren- 
die's  way  of  walking  in  unannounced. 

"You  ought  to  do  it,"  she  insisted.  "A  complete  in 
terpretation — a  summing-up  of  his  style,  his  purpose, 
his  theory  of  life  and  art.  No  one  else  could  do  it  as 
well." 

He  sat  looking  at  her  perplexedly.  Suddenly — dared 
he  guess? 

"I  couldn't  do  it  without  you,"  he  faltered. 

"I  could  help  you — I  would  help  you,  of  course." 

They  sat  silent,  both  looking  at  the  lake. 

It  was  agreed,  when  they  parted,  that  he  should 
rejoin  her  six  weeks  later  in  Venice.  There  they  were 
to  talk  about  the  book. 

[  "1 


THE     MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

III 

Lago  d'lseo,  August  14th. 

WHEN  I  said  good-by  to  you  yesterday  I  prom 
ised  to  come  back  to  Venice  in  a  week:  I  was 
to  give  you  your  answer  then.  I  was  not  honest  in 
saying  that;  I  didn't  mean  to  go  back  to  Venice  or  to 
see  you  again.  I  was  running  away  from  you — and 
I  mean  to  keep  on  running !  If  you  won't,  /  must. 
Somebody  must  save  you  from  marrying  a  disappointed 
woman  of — well,  you  say  years  don't  count,  and  why 
should  they,  after  all,  since  you  are  not  to  marry  me  ? 

That  is  what  I  dare  not  go  back  to  say.  You  are 
not  to  marry  me.  We  have  had  our  month  together  in 
Venice  (such  a  good  month,  was  it  not?)  and  now 
you  are  to  go  home  and  write  a  book — any  book 
but  the  one  we — didn't  talk  of! — and  I  am  to  stay 
here,  attitudinizing  among  my  memories  like  a  sort 
of  female  Tithonus.  The  dreariness  of  this  enforced 
immortality ! 

But  you  shall  know  the  truth.  I  care  for  you,  or 
at  least  for  your  love,  enough  to  owe  you  that. 

You  thought  it  was  because  Vincent  Rendle  had 
loved  me  that  there  was  so  little  hope  for  you.  I 
had  had  what  I  wanted  to  the  full;  wasn't  that 
what  you  said?  It  is  just  when  a  man  begins  to 
think  he  understands  a  woman  that  he  may  be  sure 
[14] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

he  doesn't!  It  is  because  Vincent  Rendle  didn't  love  me 
that  there  is  no  hope  for  you.  I  never  had  what  I 
wanted,  and  never,  never,  never  will  I  stoop  to  want 
ing  anything  else. 

Do  you  begin  to  understand  ?  It  was  all  a  sham  then, 
you  say  ?  No,  it  was  all  real  as  far  as  it  went.  You  are 
young — you  haven't  learned,  as  you  will  later,  the 
thousand  imperceptible  signs  by  which  one  gropes 
one's  way  through  the  labyrinth  of  human  nature;  but 
didn't  it  strike  you,  sometimes,  that  I  never  told  you 
any  foolish  little  anecdotes  about  him  ?  His  trick,  for 
instance,  of  twirling  a  paper-knife  round  and  round 
between  his  thumb  and  forefinger  while  he  talked ;  his 
mania  for  saving  the  backs  of  notes ;  his  greediness 
for  wild  strawberries,  the  little  pungent  Alpine  ones ; 
his  childish  delight  in  acrobats  and  jugglers;  his  way 
of  always  calling  me  you — dear  you,  every  letter  be 
gan —  I  never  told  you  a  word  of  all  that,  did  I  ?  Do 
you  suppose  I  could  have  helped  telling  you,  if  he  had 
loved  me  ?  These  little  things  would  have  been  mine, 
then,  a  part  of  my  life — of  our  life — they  would  have 
slipped  out  in  spite  of  me  (it's  only  your  unhappy 
woman  who  is  always  reticent  and  dignified).  But  there 
never  was  any  "our  life ;"  it  was  always  "our  lives"  to 
the  end.  .  .  . 

If  you  knew  what  a  relief  it  is  to  tell  some  one  at 
last,  you  would  bear  with  me,  you  would  let  me  hurt 
[15] 


THE    MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

you !  I  shall  never  be  quite  so  lonely  again,  now  that 
some  one  knows. 

Let  me  begin  at  the  beginning.  When  I  first  met 
Vincent  Rendle  I  was  not  twenty-five.  That  was  twenty 
years  ago.  From  that  time  until  his  death,  five  years 
ago,  we  were  fast  friends.  He  gave  me  fifteen  years, 
perhaps  the  best  fifteen  years,  of  his  life.  The  world, 
as  you  know,  thinks  that  his  greatest  poems  were  writ 
ten  during  those  years ;  I  am  supposed  to  have  "in 
spired"  them,  and  in  a  sense  I  did.  From  the  first,  the 
intellectual  sympathy  between  us  was  almost  complete  ; 
my  mind  must  have  been  to  him  (I  fancy)  like  some 
perfectly  tuned  instrument  on  which  he  was  never 
tired  of  playing.  Some  one  told  me  of  his  once  saying 
of  me  that  I  "always  understood  ;"  it  is  the  only  praise 
I  ever  heard  of  his  giving  me.  I  don't  even  know  if  he 
thought  me  pretty,  though  I  hardly  think  my  appear 
ance  could  have  been  disagreeable  to  him,  for  he  hated 
to  be  with  ugly  people.  At  all  events  he  fell  into  the 
way  of  spending  more  and  more  of  his  time  with  me. 
He  liked  our  house;  our  ways  suited  him.  He  was 
nervous,  irritable ;  people  bored  him  and  yet  he  dis 
liked  solitude.  He  took  sanctuary  with  us.  When  we 
travelled  he  went  with  us ;  in  the  winter  he  took  rooms 
near  us  in  Rome.  In  England  or  on  the  continent  he 
was  always  with  us  for  a  good  part  of  the  year.  In  small 
ways  I  was  able  to  help  him  in  his  work ;  he  grew  de- 
[16] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

pendent  on  me.  When  we  were  apart  he  wrote  to  me 
continually — he  liked  to  have  me  share  in  all  he  was 
doing  or  thinking ;  he  was  impatient  for  my  criticism  of 
every  new  book  that  interested  him ;  I  was  a  part  of 
his  intellectual  life.  The  pity  of  it  was  that  I  wanted 
to  be  something  more.  I  was  a  young  woman  and  I 
was  in  love  with  him — not  because  he  was  Vincent 
Rendle,  but  just  because  he  was  himself! 

People  began  to  talk,  of  course — I  was  Vincent  Ren- 
die's  Mrs.  Anerton;  when  the  Sonnets  to  Silvia  appeared, 
it  was  whispered  that  I  was  Silvia.  Wherever  he  went, 
I  was  invited;  people  made  up  to  me  in  the  hope  of 
getting  to  know  him;  when  I  was  in  London  my  door 
bell  never  stopped  ringing.  Elderly  peeresses,  aspiring 
hostesses,  love-sick  girls  and  struggling  authors  over 
whelmed  me  with  their  assiduities.  I  hugged  my  suc 
cess,  for  I  knew  what  it  meant — they  thought  that 
Rendle  was  in  love  with  me !  Do  you  know,  at  times, 
they  almost  made  me  think  so  too  ?  Oh,  there  was  no 
phase  of  folly  I  didn't  go  through.  You  can't  imagine 
the  excuses  a  woman  will  invent  for  a  man's  not  telling 
her  that  he  loves  her — pitiable  arguments  that  she 
would  see  through  at  a  glance  if  any  other  woman  used 
them!  But  all  the  while,  deep  down,  I  knew  he  had 
never  cared.  I  should  have  known  it  if  he  had  made 
love  to  me  every  day  of  his  life.  I  could  never  guess 
whether  he  knew  what  people  said  about  us — he 
[17] 


THE    MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

listened  so  little  to  what  people  said ;  and  cared  still 
less,  when  he  heard.  He  was  always  quite  honest  and 
straightforward  with  me;  he  treated  me  as  one  man 
treats  another;  and  yet  at  times  I  felt  he  must  see 
that  with  me  it  was  different.  If  he  did  see,  he  made 
no  sign.  Perhaps  he  never  noticed  —  I  am  sure  he  never 
meant  to  be  cruel.  He  had  never  made  love  to  me ;  it 
was  no  fault  of  his  if  I  wanted  more  than  he  could  give 
me.  The  Sonnets  to  Silvia,  you  say  ?  But  what  are  they  ? 
A  cosmic  philosophy,  not  a  love-poem;  addressed  to 
Woman,  not  to  a  woman  ! 

But  then,  the  letters?  Ah,  the  letters!  Well,  I'll 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  You  have  noticed  the  breaks 
in  the  letters  here  and  there,  just  as  they  seem  to  be  on 
the  point  of  growing  a  little — warmer?  The  critics,  you 
may  remember,  praised  the  editor  for  his  commendable 
delicacy  and  good  taste  (so  rare  in  these  days  !)  in  omit 
ting  from  the  correspondence  all  personal  allusions,  all 
those  details  intimes  which  should  be  kept  sacred  from 
the  public  gaze.  They  referred,  of  course,  to  the  as 
terisks  in  the  letters  to  Mrs.  A.  Those  letters  I  myself 
prepared  for  publication;  that  is  to  say,  I  copied  them 
out  for  the  editor,  and  eveiy  now  and  then  I  put  in  a 
line  of  asterisks  to  make  it  appear  that  something  had 
been  left  out.  You  understand?  The  asterisks  were  a 
sham — there  was  nothing  to  leave  out. 

No  one  but  a  woman  could  understand  what  I  went 

[18] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

through  during  those  years — the  moments  of  revolt, 
when  I  felt  I  must  break  away  from  it  all,  fling  the 
truth  in  his  face  and  never  see  him  again;  the  in 
evitable  reaction,  when  not  to  see  him  seemed  the  one 
unendurable  thing,  and  I  trembled  lest  a  look  or  word 
of  mine  should  disturb  the  poise  of  our  friendship;  the 
silly  days  when  I  hugged  the  delusion  that  he  must 
love  me,  since  everybody  thought  he  did;  the  long  pe 
riods  of  numbness,  when  I  didn't  seem  to  care  whether 
he  loved  me  or  not.  Between  these  wretched  days 
came  others  when  our  intellectual  accord  was  so  per 
fect  that  I  forgot  everything  else  in  the  joy  of  feeling 
myself  lifted  up  on  the  wings  of  his  thought.  Some 
times,  then,  the  heavens  seemed  to  be  opened.  .  .  . 

All  this  time  he  was  so  dear  a  friend!  He  had  the 
genius  of  friendship,  and  he  spent  it  all  on  me.  Yes, 
you  were  right  when  you  said  that  I  have  had  more 
than  any  other  woman.  //  faut  de  I'adresse  pour  aimer, 
Pascal  says;  and  I  was  so  quiet,  so  cheerful,  so  frankly 
affectionate  with  him,  that  in  all  those  years  I  am  al 
most  sure  I  never  bored  him.  Could  I  have  hoped  as 
much  if  he  had  loved  me  ? 

You  mustn't  think  of  him,  though,  as  having  been 

tied  to  my  skirts.  He  came  and  went  as  he  pleased, 

and  so  did  his  fancies.  There  was  a  girl  once  (I  am 

telling  you  everything),  a  lovely  being  who  called  his 

[19] 


THE    MUSE'S    TRAGEDY 

poetry  "deep"  and  gave  him  Lucile  on  his  birthday. 
He  followed  her  to  Switzerland  one  summer,  and  all 
the  time  that  he  was  dangling  after  her  (a  little  too 
conspicuously,  I  always  thought,  for  a  Great  Man),  he 
was  writing  to  me  about  his  theory  of  vowel-combina 
tions — or  was  it  his  experiments  in  English  hexameter? 
The  letters  were  dated  from  the  very  places  where  I 
knew  they  went  and  sat  by  waterfalls  together  and  he 
thought  out  adjectives  for  her  hair.  He  talked  to  me 
about  it  quite  frankly  afterwards.  She  was  perfectly 
beautiful  and  it  had  been  a  pure  delight  to  watch  her; 
but  she  would  talk,  and  her  mind,  he  said,  was  "all 
elbows."  And  yet,  the  next  year,  when  her  marriage 
was  announced,  he  went  away  alone,  quite  suddenly 
.  .  .  and  it  was  just  afterwards  that  he  published 
Loves  Viaticum.  Men  are  queer! 

After  my  husband  died — I  am  putting  things 
crudely,  you  see — I  had  a  return  of  hope.  It  was  be 
cause  he  loved  me,  I  argued,  that  he  had  never  spoken ; 
because  he  had  always  hoped  some  day  to  make  me  his 
wife;  because  he  wanted  to  spare  me  the  "reproach." 
Rubbish!  I  knew  well  enough,  in  my  heart  of  hearts, 
that  my  one  chance  lay  in  the  force  of  habit.  He  had 
grown  used  to  me ;  he  was  no  longer  young ;  he  dreaded 
new  people  and  new  ways ;  il  avail  pris  son  pli.  Would 
it  not  be  easier  to  marry  me  ? 

I  don't  believe  he  ever  thought  of  it.  He  wrote  me 
[20] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

what  people  call  "a  beautiful  letter;"  he  was  kind, 
considerate,  decently  commiserating;  then,  after  a  few 
weeks,  he  slipped  into  his  old  way  of  coming  in  every 
afternoon,  and  our  interminable  talks  began  again  just 
where  they  had  left  off.  I  heard  later  that  people  thought 
I  had  shown  "such  good  taste"  in  not  marrying  him. 

So  we  jogged  on  for  five  years  longer.  Perhaps  they 
were  the  best  years,  for  I  had  given  up  hoping.  Then 
he  died. 

After  his  death — this  is  curious — there  came  to  me 
a  kind  of  mirage  of  love.  All  the  books  and  articles 
written  about  him,  all  the  reviews  of  the  "Life,"  were 
full  of  discreet  allusions  to  Silvia.  I  became  again  the 
Mrs.  Anerton  of  the  glorious  days.  Sentimental  girls 
and  dear  lads  like  you  turned  pink  when  somebody 
whispered,  "that  was  Silvia  you  were  talking  to."  Idiots 
begged  for  my  autograph — publishers  urged  me  to 
write  my  reminiscences  of  him — critics  consulted  me 
about  the  reading  of  doubtful  lines.  And  I  knew  that, 
to  all  these  people,  I  was  the  woman  Vincent  Rendle 
had  loved. 

After  a  while  that  fire  went  out  too  and  I  was  left 
alone  with  my  past.  Alone — quite  alone;  for  he  had 
never  really  been  with  me.  The  intellectual  union 
counted  for  nothing  now.  It  had  been  soul  to  soul, 
but  never  hand  in  hand,  and  there  were  no  little 
things  to  remember  him  by. 

[21] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

Then  there  set  in  a  kind  of  Arctic  winter.  I 
crawled  into  myself  as  into  a  snow-hut.  I  hated  my 
solitude  and  yet  dreaded  any  one  who  disturbed  it. 
That  phase,  of  course,  passed  like  the  others.  I  took 
up  life  again,  and  began  to  read  the  papers  and  con 
sider  the  cut  of  my  gowns.  But  there  was  one  ques 
tion  that  I  could  not  be  rid  of,  that  haunted  me 
night  and  day.  Why  had  he  never  loved  me  ?  Why 
had  I  been  so  much  to  him,  and  no  more?  Was  I  so 
ugly,  so  essentially  unlovable,  that  though  a  man 
might  cherish  me  as  his  mind's  comrade,  he  could 
not  care  for  me  as  a  woman?  I  can't  tell  you  how 
that  question  tortured  me.  It  became  an  obsession. 

My  poor  friend,  do  you  begin  to  see?  I  had  to 
find  out  what  some  other  man  thought  of  me.  Don't 
be  too  hard  on  me !  Listen  first — consider.  When  I 
first  met  Vincent  Rendle  I  was  a  young  woman,  who 
had  married  early  and  led  the  quietest  kind  of  life;  I 
had  had  no  "experiences."  From  the  hour  of  our  first 
meeting  to  the  day  of  his  death  I  never  looked  at  any 
other  man,  and  never  noticed  whether  any  other  man 
looked  at  me.  When  he  died,  five  years  ago,  I  knew  the 
extent  of  my  powers  no  more  than  a  baby.  Was  it  too 
late  to  find  out  ?  Should  I  never  know  why  ? 

Forgive  me — forgive  me.  You  are  so  young;  it  will 
be  an  episode,  a  mere  "document,"  to  you  so  soon! 
And,  besides,  it  wasn't  as  deliberate,  as  cold-blooded 
[22] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

as  these  disjointed  lines  have  made  it  appear.  I  didn't 
plan  it,  like  a  woman  in  a  book.  Life  is  so  much  more 
complex  than  any  rendering  of  it  can  be.  I  liked  you 
from  the  first — I  was  drawn  to  you  (you  must  have 
seen  that) — I  wanted  you  to  like  me;  it  was  not  a 
mere  psychological  experiment.  And  yet  in  a  sense  it 
was  that,  too — I  must  be  honest.  I  had  to  have  an 
answer  to  that  question;  it  was  a  ghost  that  had  to  be 
laid. 

At  first  I  was  afraid — oh,  so  much  afraid — that  you 
cared  for  me  only  because  I  was  Silvia,  that  you  loved 
me  because  you  thought  Rendle  had  loved  me.  I  be 
gan  to  think  there  was  no  escaping  my  destiny. 

How  happy  I  was  when  I  discovered  that  you  were 
growing  jealous  of  my  past ;  that  you  actually  hated 
Rendle !  My  heart  beat  like  a  girl's  when  you  told  me 
you  meant  to  follow  me  to  Venice. 

After  our  parting  at  Villa  d'Este  my  old  doubts  re 
asserted  themselves.  What  did  I  know  of  your  feeling 
for  me,  after  all?  Were  you  capable  of  analyzing  it 
yourself?  Was  it  not  likely  to  be  two-thirds  vanity  and 
curiosity,  and  one-third  literary  sentimentality?  You 
might  easily  fancy  that  you  cared  for  Mary  Anerton 
when  you  were  really  in  love  with  Silvia— the  heart 
is  such  a  hypocrite !  Or  you  might  be  more  calculating 
than  I  had  supposed.  Perhaps  it  was  you  who  had  been 
flattering  my  vanity  in  the  hope  (the  pardonable  hope !) 
[23] 


THE     MUSE'S     TRAGEDY 

of  turning  me,  after  a  decent  interval,  into  a  pretty 
little  essay  with  a  margin. 

When  you  arrived  in  Venice  and  we  met  again — do 
you  remember  the  music  on  the  lagoon,  that  evening, 
from  my  balcony? — I  was  so  afraid  you  would  begin 
to  talk  about  the  book — the  book,  you  remember,  was 
your  ostensible  reason  for  coming.  You  never  spoke 
of  it,  and  I  soon  saw  your  one  fear  was  /  might  do 
so — might  remind  you  of  your  object  in  being  with 
me.  Then  I  knew  you  cared  for  me !  yes,  at  that  mo 
ment  really  cared !  We  never  mentioned  the  book  once, 
did  we,  during  that  month  in  Venice  ? 

I  have  read  my  letter  over ;  and  now  I  wish  that  I 
had  said  this  to  you  instead  of  writing  it.  I  could  have 
felt  my  way  then,  watching  your  face  and  seeing  if  you 
understood.  But,  no,  I  could  not  go  back  to  Venice  ; 
and  I  could  not  tell  you  (though  I  tried)  while  we 
were  there  together.  I  couldn't  spoil  that  month — my 
one  month.  It  was  so  good,  for  once  in  my  life,  to  get 
away  from  literature  .... 

You  will  be  angry  with  me  at  first — but,  alas !  not 
for  long.  W7hat  I  have  done  would  have  been  cruel  if  I 
had  been  a  younger  woman ;  as  it  is,  the  experiment 
will  hurt  no  one  but  myself.  And  it  will  hurt  me  hor 
ribly  (as  much  as,  in  your  first  anger,  you  may  perhaps 
wish),  because  it  has  shown  me,  for  the  first  time,  all 
that  I  have  missed  .... 


A    JOURNEY 


A    JOURNEY 

A  she  lay  in  her  berth,  staring  at  the  shadows 
overhead,  the  rush  of  the  wheels  was  in  her 
brain,  driving  her  deeper  and  deeper  into  cir 
cles  of  wakeful  lucidity.  The  sleeping-car  had  sunk  into 
its  night-silence.  Through   the  wet  window-pane  she 
watched    the    sudden    lights,    the   long    stretches    of 
hurrying   blackness.    Now   and    then    she   turned   her 
head  and   looked    through  the   opening  in  the  hang 
ings  at  her  husband's  curtains  across  the  aisle  .  .  . 

She  wondered  restlessly  if  he  wanted  anything  and 
if  she  could  hear  him  if  he  called.  His  voice  had 
grown  very  weak  within  the  last  months  and  it  irri 
tated  him  when  she  did  not  hear.  This  irritability, 
this  increasing  childish  petulance  seemed  to  give  ex 
pression  to  their  imperceptible  estrangement.  Like 
two  faces  looking  at  one  another  through  a  sheet  of 
glass  they  were  close  together,  almost  touching,  but 
they  could  not  hear  or  feel  each  other:  the  conduc 
tivity  between  them  was  broken.  She,  at  least,  had 
this  sense  of  separation,  and  she  fancied  sometimes 
that  she  saw  it  reflected  in  the  look  with  which  he 
supplemented  his  failing  words.  Doubtless  the  fault 
was  hers..  She  was  too  impenetrably  healthy  to  be 
touched  by  the  irrelevancies  of  disease.  Her  self-re- 
[27] 


A    JOURNEY 

proachful  tenderness  was  tinged  with  the  sense  of  his 
irrationality:  she  had  a  vague  feeling  that  there  was  a 
purpose  in  his  helpless  tyrannies.  The  suddenness  of 
the  change  had  found  her  so  unprepared.  A  year  ago 
their  pulses  had  beat  to  one  robust  measure;  both  had 
the  same  prodigal  confidence  in  an  exhaustless  future. 
Now  their  energies  no  longer  kept  step:  hers  still 
bounded  ahead  of  life,  preempting  unclaimed  regions 
of  hope  and  activity,  while  his  lagged  behind,  vainly 
struggling  to  overtake  her. 

When  they  married,  she  had  such  arrears  of  living 
to  make  up:  her  days  had  been  as  bare  as  the  white 
washed  school-room  where  she  forced  innutritious  facts 
upon  reluctant  children.  His  coming  had  broken  in  on 
the  slumber  of  circumstance,  widening  the  present  till 
it  became  the  encloser  of  remotest  chances.  But  im 
perceptibly  the  horizon  narrowed.  Life  had  a  grudge 
against  her:  she  was  never  to  be  allowed  to  spread  her 
wings. 

At  first  the  doctors  had  said  that  six  weeks  of  mild 
air  would  set  him  right;  but  when  he  came  back  this 
assurance  was  explained  as  having  of  course  included 
a  winter  in  a  dry  climate.  They  gave  up  their  pretty 
house,  storing  the  wedding  presents  and  new  furniture, 
and  went  to  Colorado.  She  had  hated  it  there  from  the 
first.  Nobody  knew  her  or  cared  about  her;  there  was 
no  one  to  wonder  at  the  good  match  she  had  made, 
[28] 


A    JOURNEY 

or  to  envy  her  the  new  dresses  and  the  visiting-cards 
which  were  still  a  surprise  to  her.  And  he  kept  grow 
ing  worse.  She  felt  herself  beset  with  difficulties  too 
evasive  to  be  fought  by  so  direct  a  temperament.  She 
still  loved  him,  of  course;  but  he  was  gradually,  unde- 
finably  ceasing  to  be  himself.  The  man  she  had  married 
had  been  strong,  active,  gently  masterful :  the  male 
whose  pleasure  it  is  £0  clear  a  way  through  the  mate 
rial  obstructions  of  life ;  but  now  it  was  she  who  was 
the  protector,  he  who  must  be  shielded  from  importu 
nities  and  given  his  drops  or  his  beef-juice  though  the 
skies  were  falling.  The  routine  of  the  sick-room  be 
wildered  her;  this  punctual  administering  of  medicine 
seemed  as  idle  as  some  uncomprehended  religious 
mummery. 

There  were  moments,  indeed,  when  warm  gushes  of 
pity  swept  away  her  instinctive  resentment  of  his  con 
dition,  when  she  still  found  his  old  self  in  his  eyes  as 
they  groped  for  each  other  through  the  dense  medium 
of  his  weakness.  But  these  moments  had  grown  rare. 
Sometimes  he  frightened  her :  his  sunken  expressionless 
face  seemed  that  of  a  stranger ;  his  voice  was  weak  and 
hoarse ;  his  thin-lipped  smile  a  mere  muscular  contrac 
tion.  Her  hand  avoided  his  damp  soft  skin,  which  had 
lost  the  familiar  roughness  of  health:  she  caught  her 
self  furtively  watching  him  as  she  might  have  watched 
a  strange  animal.  It  frightened  her  to  feel  that  this 
[29] 


A     JOURNEY 

was  the  man  she  loved;  there  were  hours  when  to  tell 
him  what  she  suffered  seemed  the  one  escape  from  her 
fears.  But  in  general  she  judged  herself  more  leniently, 
reflecting  that  she  had  perhaps  been  too  long  alone 
with  him,  and  that  she  would  feel  differently  when 
they  were  at  home  again,  surrounded  by  her  robust 
and  buoyant  family.  How  she  had  rejoiced  when  the 
doctors  at  last  gave  their  consent  to  his  going  home! 
She  knew,  of  course,  what  the  decision  meant;  they 
both  knew.  It  meant  that  he  was  to  die ;  but  they 
dressed  the  truth  in  hopeful  euphuisms,  and  at  times, 
in  the  joy  of  preparation,  she  really  forgot  the  purpose 
of  their  journey,  and  slipped  into  an  eager  allusion  to 
next  year's  plans. 

At  last  the  day  of  leaving  came.  She  had  a  dreadful 
fear  that  they  would  never  get  away ;  that  somehow  at 
the  last  moment  he  would  fail  her;  that  the  doctors 
held  one  of  their  accustomed  treacheries  in  reserve ; 
but  nothing  happened.  They  drove  to  the  station,  he 
was  installed  in  a  seat  with  a  rug  over  his  knees  and  a 
cushion  at  his  back,  and  she  hung  out  of  the  window 
waving  unregretful  farewells  to  the  acquaintances  she 
had  really  never  liked  till  then. 

The  first  twenty-four  hours  had  passed  off  well.  He 

revived  a  little  and  it  amused  him  to  look  out  of  the 

window  and  to  observe  the  humours  of  the  car.  The 

second  day  he  began  to  grow  weary  and  to  chafe  under 

[SO] 


A     JOURNEY 

the  dispassionate  stare  of  the  freckled  child  with  the 
lump  of  chewing-gum.  She  had  to  explain  to  the  child's 
mother  that  her  husband  was  too  ill  to  be  disturbed :  a 
statement  received  by  that  lady  with  a  resentment  visi 
bly  supported  by  the  maternal  sentiment  of  the  whole 
car  .... 

That  night  he  slept  badly  and  the  next  morning  his 
temperature  frightened  her:  she  was  sure  he  was  grow 
ing  worse.  The  day  passed  slowly,  punctuated  by  the 
small  irritations  of  travel.  Watching  his  tired  face,  she 
traced  in  its  contractions  every  rattle  and  jolt  of  the 
train,  till  her  own  body  vibrated  with  sympathetic 
fatigue.  She  felt  the  others  observing  him  too,  and 
hovered  restlessly  between  him  and  the  line  of  inter 
rogative  eyes.  The  freckled  child  hung  about  him  like 
a  fly;  offers  of  candy  and  picture-books  failed  to  dis 
lodge  her:  she  twisted  one  leg  around  the  other  and 
watched  him  imperturbably.  The  porter,  as  he  passed, 
lingered  with  vague  proffers  of  help,  probably  inspired 
by  philanthropic  passengers  swelling  with  the  sense 
that  "something  ought  to  be  done  ;"  and  one  nervous 
man  in  a  skull-cap  was  audibly  concerned  as  to  the 
possible  effect  on  his  wife's  health. 

The    hours    dragged   on    in   a    dreary   inoccupation. 

Towards  dusk  she  sat  down  beside  him  and  he  laid 

his  hand  on  hers.  The  touch  startled  her.  He  seemed 

to   be    calling   her   from  far   off.    She  looked   at   him 

[31] 


A    JOURNEY 

helplessly  and  his  smile  went  through  her  like  a  phy 
sical  pang. 

"Are  you  very  tired?"  she  asked. 

"No,  not  very." 

"We'll  be  there  soon  now." 

"Yes,  very  soon." 

"This  time  to-morrow — " 

He  nodded  and  they  sat  silent.  When  she  had  put 
him  to  bed  and  crawled  into  her  own  berth  she  tried  to 
cheer  herself  with  the  thought  that  in  less  than  twenty- 
four  hours  they  would  be  in  New  York.  Her  people 
would  all  be  at  the  station  to  meet  her — she  pictured 
their  round  unanxious  faces  pressing  through  the  crowd. 
She  only  hoped  they  would  not  tell  him  too  loudly 
that  he  was  looking  splendidly  and  would  be  all  right 
in  no  time :  the  subtler  sympathies  developed  by  long 
contact  with  suffering  were  making  her  aware  of  a  cer 
tain  coarseness  of  texture  in  the  family  sensibilities. 

Suddenly  she  thought  she  heard  him  call.  She  parted 
the  curtains  and  listened.  No,  it  was  only  a  man  snor 
ing  at  the  other  end  of  the  car.  His  snores  had  a  greasy 
sound,  as  though  they  passed  through  tallow.  She  lay 
down  and  tried  to  sleep  .  .  .  Had  she  not  heard  him 
move  ?  She  started  up  trembling  .  .  .  The  silence 
frightened  her  more  than  any  sound.  He  might  not 
be  able  to  make  her  hear — he  might  be  calling  her 
now  .  .  .  What  made  her  think  of  such  things  ?  It 
[  32  ]. 


A     JOURNEY 

was  merely  the  familiar  tendency  of  an  over-tired 
mind  to  fasten  itself  on  the  most  intolerable  chance 
within  the  range  of  its  forebodings  .  .  .  Putting  her 
head  out,  she  listened;  but  she  could  not  distinguish 
his  breathing  from  that  of  the  other  pairs  of  lungs 
about  her.  She  longed  to  get  up  and  look  at  him,  but 
she  knew  the  impulse  was  a  mere  vent  for  her  rest 
lessness,  and  the  fear  of  disturbing  him  restrained  her. 
.  .  .  The  regular  movement  of  his  curtain  reassured 
her,  she  knew  not  why ;  she  remembered  that  he  had 
wished  her  a  cheerful  good-night ;  and  the  sheer  inabil 
ity  to  endure  her  fears  a  moment  longer  made  her 
put  them  from  her  with  an  effort  of  her  whole  sound 
tired  body.  She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept. 

She  sat  up  stiffly,  staring  out  at  the  dawn.  The  train 
was  rushing  through  a  region  of  bare  hillocks  huddled 
against  a  lifeless  sky.  It  looked  like  the  first  day  of 
creation.  The  air  of  the  car  was  close,  and  she  pushed 
up  her  window  to  let  in  the  keen  wind.  Then  she 
looked  at  her  watch:  it  was  seven  o'clock,  and  soon  the 
people  about  her  would  be  stirring.  She  slipped  into 
her  clothes,  smoothed  her  dishevelled  hair  and  crept  to 
the  dressing-room.  When  she  had  washed  her  face  and 
adjusted  her  dress  she  felt  more  hopeful.  It  was  always 
a  struggle  for  her  not  to  be  cheerful  in  the  morning. 
Her  cheeks  burned  deliciously  under  the  coarse  towel 
and  the  wet  hair  about  her  temples  broke  into  strong 
[33  1 


A    JOURNEY 

upward  tendrils.  Every  inch  of  her  was  full  of  life  and 
elasticity.  And  in  ten  hours  they  would  be  at  home ! 

She  stepped  to  her  husband's  berth :  it  was  time  for 
him  to  take  his  early  glass  of  milk.  The  window-shade 
was  down,  and  in  the  dusk  of  the  curtained  enclosure 
she  could  just  see  that  he  lay  sideways,  with  his  face 
away  from  her.  She  leaned  over  him  and  drew  up  the 
shade.  As  she  did  so  she  touched  one  of  his  hands.  It 
felt  cold  .  .  . 

She  bent  closer,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm  and 
calling  him  by  name.  He  did  not  move.  She  spoke 
again  more  loudly;  she  grasped  his  shoulder  and  gently 
shook  it.  He  lay  motionless.  She  caught  hold  of  his 
hand  again:  it  slipped  from  her  limply,  like  a  dead 
thing.  A  dead  thing?  ...  Her  breath  caught.  She 
must  see  his  face.  She  leaned  forward,  and  hurriedly, 
shrinkingly,  with  a  sickening  reluctance  of  the  flesh, 
laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  turned  him  over. 
His  head  fell  back ;  his  face  looked  small  and  smooth ; 
he  gazed  at  her  with  steady  eyes. 

She  remained  motionless  for  a  long  time,  holding 
him  thus ;  and  they  looked  at  each  other.  Suddenly  she 
shrank  back :  the  longing  to  scream,  to  call  out,  to  fly 
from  him,  had  almost  overpowered  her.  But  a  strong 
hand  arrested  her.  Good  God !  If  it  were  known  that 
he  was  dead  they  would  be  put  off  the  train  at  the  next 
station — 

[34] 


A    JOURNEY 

In  a  terrifying  flash  of  remembrance  there  arose  be 
fore  her  a  scene  she  had  once  witnessed  in  travelling, 
when  a  husband  and  wife,  whose  child  had  died  in  the 
train,  had  been  thrust  out  at  some  chance  station.  She 
saw  them  standing  on  the  platform  with  the  child's 
body  between  them ;  she  had  never  forgotten  the 
dazed  look  with  which  they  followed  the  receding 
train.  And  this  was  what  would  happen  to  her.  Within 
the  next  hour  she  might  find  herself  on  the  platform 
of  some  strange  station,  alone  with  her  husband's  body. 
.  .  .  Anything  but  that !  It  was  too  horrible —  She 
quivered  like  a  creature  at  bay. 

As  she  cowered  there,  she  felt  the  train  moving  more 
slowly.  It  was  coming  then — they  were  approaching  a 
station !  She  saw  again  the  husband  and  wife  standing 
on  the  lonely  platform ;  and  with  a  violent  gesture  she 
drew  down  the  shade  to  hide  her  husband's  face. 

Feeling  dizzy,  she  sank  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
berth,  keeping  away  from  his  outstretched  body,  and 
pulling  the  curtains  close,  so  that  he  and  she  were  shut 
into  a  kind  of  sepulchral  twilight.  She  tried  to  think. 
At  all  costs  she  must  conceal  the  fact  that  he  was  dead. 
But  how  ?  Her  mind  refused  to  act :  she  could  not  plan, 
combine.  She  could  think  of  no  way  but  to  sit  there, 
clutching  the  curtains,  all  day  long  .  .  . 

She  heard  the  porter  making  up  her  bed;  people 
were  beginning  to  move  about  the  car;  the  dressing- 
[35] 


A    JOURNEY 

room  door  was  being  opened  and  shut.  She  tried  to 
rouse  herself.  At  length  with  a  supreme  effort  she 
rose  to  her  feet,  stepping  into  the  aisle  of  the  car 
and  drawing  the  curtains  tight  behind  her.  She  no 
ticed  that  they  still  parted  slightly  with  the  motion 
of  the  car,  and  finding  a  pin  in  her  dress  she  fast 
ened  them  together.  Now  she  was  safe.  She  looked 
round  and  saw  the  porter.  She  fancied  he  was  watch 
ing  her. 

"Ain't  he  awake  yet?"  he  enquired. 

"No/'  she  faltered. 

"I  got  his  milk  all  ready  when  he  wants  it.  You 
know  you  told  me  to  have  it  for  him  by  seven." 

She  nodded  silently  and  crept  into  her  seat. 

At  half-past  eight  the  train  reached  Buffalo.  By 
this  time  the  other  passengers  were  dressed  and  the 
berths  had  been  folded  back  for  the  day.  The  por 
ter,  moving  to  and  fro  under  his  burden  of  sheets 
and  pillows,  glanced  at  her  as  he  passed.  At  length 
he  said:  "Ain't  he  going  to  get  up?  You  know 
we're  ordered  to  make  up  the  berths  as  early  as 
we  can." 

She  turned  cold  with  fear.  They  were  just  enter 
ing  the  station. 

" Oh,  not  yet,"  she  stammered.  "  Not  till  he  's  had 
his  milk.  Won't  you  get  it,  please  ?  " 

"All  right.  Soon  as  we  start  again." 
[36] 


A    JOURNEY 

When  the  train  moved  on  he  reappeared  with  the 
milk.  She  took  it  from  him  and  sat  vaguely  looking 
at  it :  her  brain  moved  slowly  from  one  idea  to  an 
other,  as  though  they  were  stepping-stones  set  far 
apart  across  a  whirling  flood.  At  length  she  became 
aware  that  the  porter  still  hovered  expectantly. 

ee  Will  I  give  it  to  him  ?  "  he  suggested. 

"Oh,  no/'  she  cried,  rising.  "He — he's  asleep  yet, 
[  think — " 

She  waited  till  the  porter  had  passed  on ;  then 
she  unpinned  the  curtains  and  slipped  behind  them. 
In  the  semi-obscurity  her  husband's  face  stared  up 
at  her  like  a  marble  mask  with  agate  eyes.  The  eyes 
were  dreadful.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  drew  down 
the  lids.  Then  she  remembered  the  glass  of  milk  in 
her  other  hand :  what  was  she  to  do  with  it  ?  She 
thought  of  raising  the  window  and  throwing  it  out; 
but  to  do  so  she  would  have  to  lean  across  his  body 
and  bring  her  face  close  to  his.  She  decided  to  drink 
the  milk. 

She  returned  to  her  seat  with  the  empty  glass 
and  after  a  while  the  porter  came  back  to  get  it. 

"When '11  I  fold  up  his  bed?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  not  now — not  yet ;  he  's  ill — he  's  very  ill. 
Can't  you  let  him  stay  as  he  is  ?  The  doctor  wants 
him  to  lie  down  as  much  as  possible." 

He  scratched  his  head.  "Well,  if  he's  really  sick — 


A    JOURNEY 

He  took  the  empty  glass  and  walked  away,  ex 
plaining  to  the  passengers  that  the  party  behind 
the  curtains  was  too  sick  to  get  up  just  yet. 

She  found  herself  the  centre  of  sympathetic  eyes. 
A  motherly  woman  with  an  intimate  smile  sat  down 
beside  her. 

"  I  'm  real  sorry  to  hear  your  husband's  sick.  I  've 
had  a  remarkable  amount  of  sickness  in  my  family 
and  maybe  I  could  assist  you.  Can  I  take  a  look  at 
him  ?  " 

"Oh,  no — no,  please!  He  mustn't  be  disturbed." 

The  lady  accepted  the  rebuff  indulgently. 

"Well,  it's  just  as  you  say,  of  course,  but  you  don't 
look  to  me  as  if  you  'd  had  much  experience  in  sick 
ness  and  I  'd  have  been  glad  to  assist  you.  What  do  you 
generally  do  when  your  husband's  taken  this  way?" 

"I  — I  let  him  sleep." 

"  Too    much    sleep    ain't    any   too    healthful    either. 

Don't  you  give  him  any  medicine  ?  " 

«Y— yes." 

te  Don't  you  wake  him  to  take  it  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  When  does  he  take  the  next  dose  ?  " 

"Not  for — two  hours  — 

The  lady  looked  disappointed.  "  Well,  if  I  was  you 
I'd  try  giving  it  oftener.  That's  what  I  do  with  my 
folks. 

[38] 


A     JOURNEY 

After  that  many  faces  seemed  to  press  upon  her. 
The  passengers  were  on  their  way  to  the  dining-car, 
and  she  was  conscious  that  as  they  passed  down  the 
aisle  they  glanced  curiously  at  the  closed  curtains. 
One  lantern-jawed  man  with  prominent  eyes  stood 
still  and  tried  to  shoot  his  projecting  glance  through 
the  division  between  the  folds.  The  freckled  child, 
returning  from  breakfast,  waylaid  the  passers  with  a 
buttery  clutch,  saying  in  a  loud  whisper,  "  He 's 
sick ; "  and  once  the  conductor  came  by,  asking  for 
tickets.  She  shrank  into  her  corner  and  looked  out 
of  the  window  at  the  flying  trees  and  houses,  mean 
ingless  hieroglyphs  of  an  endlessly  unrolled  papyrus. 

Now  and  then  the  train  stopped,  and  the  new 
comers  on  entering  the  car  stared  in  turn  at  the 
closed  curtains.  More  and  more  people  seemed  to  pass 
—  their  faces  began  to  blend  fantastically  with  the  im 
ages  surging  in  her  brain  .  .  . 

Later  in  the  day  a  fat  man  detached  himself  from 
the  mist  of  faces.  He  had  a  creased  stomach  and  soft 
pale  lips.  As  he  pressed  himself  into  the  seat  facing 
her  she  noticed  that  he  was  dressed  in  black  broad 
cloth,  with  a  soiled  white  tie. 

"  Husband 's  pretty  bad  this  morning,  is  he  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Dear,  dear !  Now  that 's  terribly  distressing,  ain  't 
it?"  An  apostolic  smile  revealed  his  gold-filled  teeth. 

[.89] 


A    JOURNEY 

e<  Of  course  you  know  there  's  no  sech  thing  as  sick 
ness.  Ain't  that  a  lovely  thought  ?  Death  itself  is  but  a 
deloosion  of  our  grosser  senses.  On'y  lay  yourself  open 
to  the  influx  of  the  sperrit,  submit  yourself  passively  to 
the  action  of  the  divine  force,  and  disease  and  dissolu 
tion  will  cease  to  exist  for  you.  If  you  could  indooce 
your  husband  to  read  this  little  pamphlet — 

The  faces  about  her  again  grew  indistinct.  She  had 
a  vague  recollection  of  hearing  the  motherly  lady  and 
the  parent  of  the  freckled  child  ardently  disputing  the 
relative  advantages  of  trying  several  medicines  at  once, 
or  of  taking  each  in  turn ;  the  motherly  lady  maintain 
ing  that  the  competitive  system  saved  time ;  the  other 
objecting  that  you  couldn't  tell  which  remedy  had  ef 
fected  the  cure  ;  their  voices  went  on  and  on,  like  bell- 
buoys  droning  through  a  fog  .  .  .  The  porter  came 
up  now  and  then  with  questions  that  she  did  not  un 
derstand,  but  that  somehow  she  must  have  answered 
since  he  went  away  again  without  repeating  them ; 
every  two  hours  the  motherly  lady  reminded  her  that 
her  husband  ought  to  have  his  drops ;  people  left  the 
car  and  others  replaced  them  .  .  . 

Her  head  was  spinning  and  she  tried  to  steady  her 
self  by  clutching  at  her  thoughts  as  they  swept  by,  but 
they  slipped  away  from  her  like  bushes  on  the  side 
of  a  sheer  precipice  down  which  she  seemed  to  be 
falling.  Suddenly  her  mind  grew  clear  again  and  she 
[40] 


A    JOURNEY 

found  herself  vividly  picturing  what  would  happen 
when  the  train  reached  New  York.  She  shuddered  as 
it  occurred  to  her  that  he  would  be  quite  cold  and 
that  some  one  might  perceive  he  had  been  dead  since 
morning. 

She  thought  hurriedly: — "If  they  see  I  am  not  sur 
prised  they  will  suspect  something.  They  will  ask  ques 
tions,  and  if  I  tell  them  the  truth  they  won't  believe 
me — no  one  would  believe  me  !  It  will  be  terrible  "- 
and  she  kept  repeating  to  herself: — "I  must  pretend  I 
don't  know.  I  must  pretend  I  don't  know.  When  they 
open  the  curtains  I  must  go  up  to  him  quite  naturally 
— and  then  I  must  scream."  .  .  .  She  had  an  idea  that 
the  scream  would  be  very  hard  to  do. 

Gradually  new  thoughts  crowded  upon  her,  vivid  and 
urgent :  she  tried  to  separate  and  restrain  them,  but 
they  beset  her  clamorously,  like  her  school-children  at 
the  end  of  a  hot  day,  when  she  was  too  tired  to  silence 
them.  Her  head  grew  confused,  and  she  felt  a  sick  fear 
of  forgetting  her  part,  of  betraying  herself  by  some  un 
guarded  word  or  look. 

"I  must  pretend  I  don't  know,"  she  went  on  mur 
muring.  The  words  had  lost  their  significance,  but  she 
repeated  them  mechanically,  as  though  they  had  been 
a  magic  formula,  until  suddenly  she  heard  herself  say 
ing  :  "  I  can't  remember,  I  can't  remember ! " 

Her  voice  sounded  very  loud,  and  she  looked  about 

£«  ] 


A    JOURNEY 

her  in  terror;  but  no  one  seemed  to  notice  that  she 
had  spoken. 

As  she  glanced  down  the  car  her  eye  caught  the 
curtains  of  her  husband's  berth,  and  she  began  to  ex 
amine  the  monotonous  arabesques  woven  through  their 
heavy  folds.  The  pattern  was  intricate  and  difficult  to 
trace ;  she  gazed  fixedly  at  the  curtains  and  as  she  did 
so  the  thick  stuff  grew  transparent  and  through  it  she 
saw  her  husband's  face — his  dead  face.  She  struggled 
to  avert  her  look,  but  her  eyes  refused  to  move  and  her 
head  seemed  to  be  held  in  a  vice.  At  last,  with  an  effort 
that  left  her  weak  and  shaking,  she  turned  away;  but 
it  was  of  no  use  ;  close  in  front  of  her,  small  and  smooth, 
was  her  husband's  face.  It  seemed  to  be  suspended  in 
the  air  between  her  and  the  false  braids  of  the  woman 
who  sat  in  front  of  her.  With  an  uncontrollable  gesture 
she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  push  the  face  away,  and 
suddenly  she  felt  the  touch  of  his  smooth  skin.  She 
repressed  a  cry  and  half  started  from  her  seat.  The 
woman  with  the  false  braids  looked  around,  and  feeling 
that  she  must  justify  her  movement  in  some  way  she 
rose  and  lifted  her  travelling-bag  from  the  opposite 
seat.  She  unlocked  the  bag  and  looked  into  it;  but  the 
first  object  her  hand  met  was  a  small  flask  of  her  hus 
band's,  thrust  there  at  the  last  moment,  in  the  haste  of 
departure.  She  locked  the  bag  and  closed  her  eyes  .  .  . 
his  face  was  there  again,  hanging  between  her  eye-balls 
[42] 


A    JOURNEY 

and  lids  like  a  waxen  mask  against  a  red  curtain  .  .  . 

She  roused  herself  with  a  shiver.  Had  she  fainted  or 
slept  ?  Hours  seemed  to  have  elapsed ;  but  it  was  still 
broad  day,  and  the  people  about  her  were  sitting  in 
the  same  attitudes  as  before. 

A  sudden  sense  of  hunger  made  her  aware  that  she 
had  eaten  nothing  since  morning.  The  thought  of  food 
filled  her  with  disgust,  but  she  dreaded  a  return  of 
faintness,  and  remembering  that  she  had  some  biscuits 
in  her  bag  she  took  one  out  and  ate  it.  The  dry  crumbs 
choked  her,  and  she  hastily  swallowed  a  little  brandy 
from  her  husband's  flask.  The  burning  sensation  in  her 
throat  acted  as  a  counter-irritant,  momentarily  reliev 
ing  the  dull  ache  of  her  nerves.  Then  she  felt  a  gently- 
stealing  warmth,  as  though  a  soft  air  fanned  her,  and 
the  swarming  fears  relaxed  their  clutch,  receding 
through  the  stillness  that  enclosed  her,  a  stillness 
soothing  as  the  spacious  quietude  of  a  summer  day. 
She  slept. 

Through  her  sleep  she  felt  the  impetuous  rush  of  the 
train.  It  seemed  to  be  life  itself  that  was  sweeping  her 
ori  with  headlong  inexorable  force — sweeping  her  into 
darkness  and  terror,  and  the  awe  of  unknown  days.—- 
Now  all  at  once  everything  was  still — not  a  sound,  not 
a  pulsation  .  .  .  She  was  dead  in  her  turn,  and  lay 
beside  him  with  smooth  upstaring  face.  How  quiet  it 
was! — and  yet  she  heard  feet  coming,  the  feet  of  the 
[43] 


A    JOURNEY 

men  who  were  to  carry  them  away  .  .  .  She  could 
feel  too — she  felt  a  sudden  prolonged  vibration,  a 
series  of  hard  shocks,  and  then  another  plunge  into 
darkness :  the  darkness  of  death  this  time — a  black 
whirlwind  on  which  they  were  both  spinning  like 
leaves,  in  wild  uncoiling  spirals,  with  millions  and 
millions  of  the  dead  .  .  . 

She  sprang  up  in  terror.  Her  sleep  must  have  lasted 
a  long  time,  for  the  winter  day  had  paled  and  the  lights 
had  been  lit.  The  car  was  in  confusion,  and  as  she  re 
gained  her  self-possession  she  saw  that  the  passengers 
were  gathering  up  their  wraps  and  bags.  The  woman 
with  the  false  braids  had  brought  from  the  dressing- 
room  a  sickly  ivy-plant  in  a  bottle,  and  the  Christian 
Scientist  was  reversing  his  cuffs.  The  porter  passed 
down  the  aisle  with  his  impartial  brush.  An  impersonal 
figure  with  a  gold-banded  cap  asked  for  her  husband's 
ticket.  A  voice  shouted  "Baig-gage  express!"  and  she 
heard  the  clicking  of  metal  as  the  passengers  handed 
over  their  checks. 

Presently  her  window  was  blocked  by  an  expanse  of 
sooty  wall,  and  the  train  passed  into  the  Harlem  tunnel. 
The  journey  was  over ;  in  a  few  minutes  she  would  see 
her  family  pushing  their  joyous  way  through  the  throng 
at  the  station.  Her  heart  dilated.  The  worst  terror  was 
past  .  .  . 

[44] 


A    JOURNEY 

"We'd  better  get  him  up  now,  hadn't  we?"  asked 
the  porter,  touching  her  arm. 

He  had  her  husband's  hat  in  his  hand  and  was  medi 
tatively  revolving  it  under  his  brush. 

She  looked  at  the  hat  and  tried  to  speak ;  but  sud 
denly  the  car  grew  dark.  She  flung  up  her  arms,  strug 
gling  to  catch  at  something,  and  fell  face  downward, 
striking  her  head  against  the  dead  man's  berth. 


[45] 


THE    PELICAN 


THE     PELICAN 

SHE   was   very  pretty  when    I   first   knew   her, 
with  the   sweet  straight  nose  and  short  upper 
lip   of    the    cameo-brooch   divinity,    humanized 
by   a   dimple   that   flowered   in   her   cheek   whenever 
anything  was  said  possessing  the  outward   attributes 
of  humor  without  its  intrinsic  quality.   For  the  dear 
lady  was  providentially  deficient  in  humor:  the  least 
hint  of  the  real  thing  clouded  her  lovely  eye  like  the 
hovering  shadow  of  an  algebraic  problem. 

I  don't  think  nature  had  meant  her  to  be  "intel 
lectual  ; "  but  what  can  a  poor  thing  do,  whose  hus 
band  has  died  of  drink  when  her  baby  is  hardly  six 
months  old,  and  who  finds  her  coral  necklace  and 
her  grandfather's  edition  of  the  British  Dramatists 
inadequate  to  the  demands  of  the  creditors? 

Her  mother,  the  celebrated  Irene  Astarte  Pratt,  had 
written  a  poem  in  blank  verse  on  "The  Fall  of  Man;" 
one  of  her  aunts  was  dean  of  a  girls'  college ;  another 
had  translated  Euripides — with  such  a  family,  the  poor 
child's  fate  was  sealed  in  advance.  The  only  way  of  pay 
ing  her  husband's  debts  and  keeping  the  baby  clothed 
was  to  be  intellectual ;  and,  after  some  hesitation  as  to 
the  form  her  mental  activity  was  to  take,  it  was  unani 
mously  decided  that  she  was  to  give  lectures. 
[49] 


THE    PELICAN 

They  began  by  being  drawing-room  lectures.  The 
first  time  I  saw  her  she  was  standing  by  the  piano, 
against  a  flippant  background  of  Dresden  china  and 
photographs,  telling  a  roomful  of  women  preoccu 
pied  with  their  spring  bonnets  all  she  thought  she 
knew  about  Greek  art.  The  ladies  assembled  to  hear 
her  had  given  me  to  understand  that  she  was  "do 
ing  it  for  the  baby,"  and  this  fact,  together  with 
the  shortness  of  her  upper  lip  and  the  bewildering 
co-operation  of  her  dimple,  disposed  me  to  listen 
leniently  to  her  dissertation.  Happily,  at  that  time 
Greek  art  was  still,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase,  easily 
handled:  it  was  as  simple  as  walking  down  a  mu 
seum-gallery  lined  with  pleasant  familiar  Venuses  and 
Apollos.  All  the  later  complications — the  archaic  and 
archaistic  conundrums ;  the  influences  of  Assyria  and 
Asia  Minor;  the  conflicting  attributions  and  the 
wrangles  of  the  erudite — still  slumbered  in  the 
bosom  of  the  future  "scientific  critic."  Greek  art  in 
those  days  began  with  Phidias  and  ended  with  the 
Apollo  Belvedere ;  and  a  child  could  travel  from  one 
to  the  other  without  danger  of  losing  his  way. 

Mrs.  Amyot  had  two  fatal  gifts :  a  capacious  but 
inaccurate  memory,  and  an  extraordinary  fluency  of 
speech.  There  was  nothing  she  did  not  remember — 
wrongly ;  but  her  halting  facts  were  swathed  in  so 
many  layers  of  rhetoric  that  their  infirmities  were 
[50] 


THE    PELICAN 

imperceptible  to  her  friendly  critics.  Besides,  she 
had  been  taught  Greek  by  the  aunt  who  had  trans 
lated  Euripides ;  and  the  mere  sound  of  the  a/f  and 
oig  that  she  now  and  then  not  unskilfully  let  slip 
(correcting  herself,  of  course,  with  a  start,  and  indul 
gently  mistranslating  the  phrase),  struck  awe  to  the 
hearts  of  ladies  whose  only  "  accomplishment "  was 
French — if  you  didn't  speak  too  quickly. 

I  had  then  but  a  momentary  glimpse  of  Mrs. 
Amyot,  but  a  few  months  later  I  came  upon  her 
again  in  the  New  England  university  town  where 
the  celebrated  Irene  Astarte  Pratt  lived  on  the  sum 
mit  of  a  local  Parnassus,  with  lesser  muses  and  col 
lege  professors  respectfully  grouped  on  the  lower 
ledges  of  the  sacred  declivity.  Mrs.  Amyot,  who, 
after  her  husband's  death,  had  returned  to  the  ma 
ternal  roof  (even  during  her  father's  lifetime  the 
roof  had  been  distinctively  maternal),  Mrs.  Amyot, 
thanks  to  her  upper  lip,  her  dimple  and  her  Greek, 
Was  already  esconced  in  a  snug  hollow  of  the  Par 
nassian  slope. 

After  the  lecture  was  over  it  happened  that  I 
walked  home  with  Mrs.  Amyot.  From  the  incensed 
glances  of  two  or  three  learned  gentlemen  who  were 
hovering  on  the  door-step  when  we  emerged,  I  inferred 
that  Mrs.  Amyot,  at  that  period,  did  not  often  walk 
home  alone ;  but  I  doubt  whether  any  of  my  discom- 
[51] 


THE     PELICAN 

fited  rivals,  whatever  his  claims  to  favor,  was  ever 
treated  to  so  ravishing  a  mixture  of  shyness  and  self- 
abandonment,  of  sham  erudition  and  real  teeth  and 
hair,  as  it  was  my  privilege  to  enjoy.  Even  at  the  open 
ing  of  her  public  career  Mrs.  Amyot  had  a  tender  eye 
for  strangers,  as  possible  links  with  successive  centres 
of  culture  to  which  in  due  course  the  torch  of  Greek 
art  might  be  handed  on. 

She  began  by  telling  me  that  she  had  never  been  so 
frightened  in  her  life.  She  knew,  of  course,  how  dread 
fully  learned  I  was,  and  when,  just  as  she  was  going  to 
begin,  her  hostess  had  whispered  to  her  that  I  was  in 
the  room,  she  had  felt  ready  to  sink  through  the  floor. 
Then  (with  a  flying  dimple)  she  had  remembered  Em 
erson's  line — wasn't  it  Emerson's? — that  beauty  is  its 
own  excuse  for  seeing,  and  that  had  made  her  feel  a 
little  more  confident,  since  she  was  sure  that  no  one 
saw  beauty  more  vividly  than  she — as  a  child  she  used 
to  sit  for  hours  gazing  at  an  Etruscan  vase  on  the  book 
case  in  the  library,  while  her  sisters  played  with  their 
dolls — and  if  seeing  beauty  was  the  only  excuse  one 
needed  for  talking  about  it,  why,  she  was  sure  I  would 
make  allowances  and  not  be  too  critical  and  sarcastic, 
especially  if,  as  she  thought  probable,  I  had  heard  of 
her  having  lost  her  poor  husband,  and  how  she  had  to 
do  it  for  the  baby. 

Being  abundantly  assured  of  my  svmpathy  on  these 
[52] 


THE    PELICAN 

points,  she  went  on  to  say  that  she  had  always  wanted 
so  much  to  consult  me  about  her  lectures.  Of  course, 
one  subject  wasn't  enough  (this  view  of  the  limitations 
of  Greek  art  as  a  "subject"  gave  me  a  startling  idea  of 
the  rate  at  which  a  successful  lecturer  might  exhaust 
the  universe) ;  she  must  find  others ;  she  had  not  ven 
tured  on  any  as  yet,  but  she  had  thought  of  Tennyson 
— didn't  I  love  Tennyson  ?  She  worshipped  him  so  that 
she  was  sure  she  could  help  others  to  understand  him ; 
or  what  did  I  think  of  a  "course"  on  Raphael  or  Mi 
chelangelo — or  on  the  heroines  of  Shakespeare  ?  There 
were  some  fine  steel-engravings  of  Raphael's  Madonnas 
and  of  the  Sistine  ceiling  in  her  mother's  library,  and 
she  had  seen  Miss  Cushman  in  several  Shakespearian 
roles,  so  that  on  these  subjects  also  she  felt  qualified  to 
speak  with  authority. 

When  we  reached  her  mother's  door  she  begged  me 
to  come  in  and  talk  the  matter  over ;  she  wanted  me  to 
see  the  baby — she  felt  as  though  I  should  understand 
her  better  if  I  saw  the  baby — and  the  dimple  flashed 
through  a  tear. 

The  fear  of  encountering  the  author  of  "The  Fall  of 
Man,"  combined  with  the  opportune  recollection  of  a 
dinner  engagement,  made  me  evade  this  appeal  with 
the  promise  of  returning  on  the  morrow.  On  the  mor 
row,  I  left  too  early  to  redeem  my  promise;  and  for 
several  years  afterwards  I  saw  no  more  of  Mrs.  Amyot. 
[53] 


THE    PELICAN 

My  calling  at  that  time  took  me  at  irregular  intervals 
from  one  to  another  of  our  larger  cities,  and  as  Mrs. 
Amyot  was  also  peripatetic  it  was  inevitable  that  sooner 
or  later  we  should  cross  each  other's  path.  It  was  there 
fore  without  surprise  that,  one  snowy  afternoon  in  Bos 
ton,  I  learned  from  the  lady  with  whom  I  chanced  to 
be  lunching  that,  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  over,  I  was 
to  be  taken  to  hear  Mrs.  Amyot  lecture. 

"On  Greek  art  ?"  I  suggested. 

"Oh,  you 've  heard  her  then?  No,  this  is  one  of  the 
series  called  ' Homes  and  Haunts  of  the  Poets.'  Last 
week  we  had  Wordsworth  and  the  Lake  Poets,  to-day 
we  are  to  have  Goethe  and  Weimar.  She  is  a  wonderful 
creature — all  the  women  of  her  family  are  geniuses. 
You  know,  of  course,  that  her  mother  was  Irene  Astarte 
Pratt,  who  wrote  a  poem  on  'The  Fall  of  Man';  N.  P. 
Willis  called  her  the  female  Milton  of  America.  One  of 
Mrs.  Amyot's  aunts  has  translated  Eurip — " 

"And  is  she  as  pretty  as  ever?"  I  irrelevantly  inter 
posed. 

My  hostess  looked  shocked.  "She  is  excessively  mod 
est  and  retiring.  She  says  it  is  actual  suffering  for  her 
to  speak  in  public.  You  know  she  only  does  it  for  the 
baby." 

Punctually  at  the  hour  appointed,  we  took  our  seats 
in  a  lecture-hall  full  of  strenuous  females  in  ulsters. 
Mrs.  Amyot  was  evidently  a  favorite  with  these  aus- 
[54] 


THE    PELICAN 

tere  sisters,  for  every  corner  was  crowded,  and  as  we 
entered  a  pale  usher  with  an  educated  mispronuncia 
tion  was  setting  forth  to  several  dejected  applicants 
the  impossibility  of  supplying  them  with  seats. 

Our  own  were  happily  so  near  the  front  that  when 
the  curtains  at  the  back  of  the  platform  parted,  and 
Mrs.  Amyot  appeared,  I  was  at  once  able  to  establish  a 
comparison  between  the  lady  placidly  dimpling  to  the 
applause  of  her  public  and  the  shrinking  drawing-room 
orator  of  my  earlier  recollections. 

Mrs.  Amyot  was  as  pretty  as  ever,  and  there  was  the 
same  curious  discrepancy  between  the  freshness  of  her 
aspect  and  the  staleness  of  her  theme,  but  something 
was  gone  of  the  blushing  unsteadiness  with  which  she 
had  fired  her  first  random  shots  at  Greek  art.  It  was 
not  that  the  shots  were  less  uncertain,  but  that  she 
now  had  an  air  of  assuming  that,  for  her  purpose,  the 
bull's-eye  was  everywhere,  so  that  there  was  no  need 
to  be  flustered  in  taking  aim.  This  assurance  had  so 
facilitated  the  flow  of  her  eloquence  that  she  seemed  to 
be  performing  a  trick  analogous  to  that  of  the  conjuror 
who  pulls  hundreds  of  yards  of  white  paper  out  of  his 
mouth.  From  a  large  assortment  of  stock  adjectives  she 
chose,  with  unerring  deftness  and  rapidity,  the  one  that 
taste  and  discrimination  would  most  surely  have  re 
jected,  fitting  out  her  subject  with  a  whole  wardrobe 
of  slop-shop  epithets  irrelevant  in  cut  and  size.  To  the 
[55] 


THE    PELICAN 

invaluable  knack  of  not  disturbing  the  association  of 
ideas  in  her  audience,  she  added  the  gift  of  what  may 
be  called  a  confidential  manner — so  that  her  fluent 
generalizations  about  Goethe  and  his  place  in  literature 
(the  lecture  was,  of  course,  manufactured  out  of  Lewes' s 
book)  had  the  flavor  of  personal  experience,  of  views 
sympathetically  exchanged  with  her  audience  on  the 
best  way  of  knitting  children's  socks,  or  of  putting  up 
preserves  for  the  winter.  It  was,  I  am  sure,  to  this  per 
sonal  accent — the  moral  equivalent  of  her  dimple — 
that  Mrs.  Amyot  owed  her  prodigious,  her  irrational 
success.  It  was  her  art  of  transposing  second-hand  ideas 
into  first-hand  emotions  that  so  endeared  her  to  her 
feminine  listeners. 

To  any  one  not  in  search  of  "documents"  Mrs.  Am- 
yot's  success  was  hardly  of  a  kind  to  make  her  more 
interesting,  and  my  curiosity  flagged  with  the  growing 
conviction  that  the  "suffering"  entailed  on  her  by  pub 
lic  speaking  was  at  most  a  retrospective  pang.  I  was 
sure  that  she  had  reached  the  point  of  measuring  and 
enjoying  her  effects,  of  deliberately  manipulating  her 
public ;  and  there  must  indeed  have  been  a  certain 
exhilaration  in  attaining  results  so  considerable  by 
means  involving  so  little  conscious  effort.  Mrs.  Amyot's 
art  was  simply  an  extension  of  coquetry :  she  flirted 
with  her  audience. 

In  this  mood  of  enlightened  skepticism  I  responded 
[56] 


THE     PELICAN 

but  languidly  to  my  hostess's  suggestion  that  I  should 
go  with  her  that  evening  to  see  Mrs.  Amyot.  The  aunt 
who  had  translated  Euripides  was  at  home  on  Saturday 
evenings,  and  one  met  "thoughtful"  people  there,  my 
hostess  explained  :  it  was  one  of  the  intellectual  centres 
of  Boston.  My  mood  remained  distinctly  resentful  of 
any  connection  between  Mrs.  Amyot  and  intellectu 
ality,  and  I  declined  to  go;  but  the  next  day  I  met 
Mrs.  Amyot  in  the  street. 

She  stopped  me  reproachfully.  She  had  heard  I  was 
in  Boston ;  why  had  I  not  come  last  night  ?  She  had 
been  told  that  I  was  at  her  lecture,  and  it  had  fright 
ened  her — yes,  really,  almost  as  much  as  years  ago  in 
Hillbridge.  She  never  could  get  over  that  stupid  shy 
ness,  and  the  whole  business  was  as  distasteful  to  her 
as  ever ;  but  what  could  she  do  ?  There  was  the  baby 
— he  was  a  big  boy  now,  and  boys  were  so  expensive ! 
But  did  I  really  think  she  had  improved  the  least 
little  bit?  And  why  wouldn't  I  come  home  with  her 
now,  and  see  the  boy,  and  tell  her  frankly  what  I  had 
thought  of  the  lecture  ?  She  had  plenty  of  flattery — 
people  were  so  kind,  and  every  one  knew  that  she  did 
it  for  the  baby — but  what  she  felt  the  need  of  was 
criticism,  severe,  discriminating  criticism  like  mine — 
oh,  she  knew  that  I  was  dreadfully  discriminating ! 

I  went  home  with  her  and  saw  the  boy.  In  the  early 
heat  of  her  Tennyson-worship  Mrs.  Amyot  had  christ- 
[57] 


THE     PELICAN 

ened  him  Lancelot,  and  he  looked  it.  Perhaps,  how 
ever,  it  was  his  black  velvet  dress  and  the  exasperating 
length  of  his  yellow  curls,  together  with  the  fact  of  his 
having  been  taught  to  recite  Browning  to  visitors,  that 
raised  to  fever-heat  the  itching  of  my  palms  in  his 
Infant-Samuel-like  presence.  I  have  since  had  reason 
to  think  that  he  would  have  preferred  to  be  called 
Billy,  and  to  hunt  cats  with  the  other  boys  in  the 
block :  his  curls  and  his  poetry  were  simply  another 
outlet  for  Mrs.  Amyot's  irrepressible  coquetry. 

But  if  Lancelot  was  not  genuine,  his  mother's 
love  for  him  was.  It  justified  everything — the  lec 
tures  mere  for  the  baby,  after  all.  I  had  not  been 
ten  minutes  in  the  room  before  I  was  pledged  to 
help  Mrs.  Amyot  carry  out  her  triumphant  fraud.  If 
she  wanted  to  lecture  on  Plato  she  should — Plato 
must  take  his  chance  like  the  rest  of  us !  There  was 
no  use,  of  course,  in  being  "discriminating."  I  pre 
served  sufficient  reason  to  avoid  that  pitfall,  but  I 
suggested  "subjects"  and  made  lists  of  books  for 
her  with  a  fatuity  that  became  more  obvious  as 
time  attenuated  the  remembrance  of  her  smile ;  I 
even  remember  thinking  that  some  men  might  have 
cut  the  knot  by  marrying  her,  but  I  handed  over 
Plato  as  a  hostage  and  escaped  by  the  afternoon 
train. 

The  next  time  I  saw  her  was  in  New  York,  when 
[58] 


THE     PELICAN 

she  had  become  so  fashionable  that  it  was  a  part  of 
the  whole  duty  of  woman  to  be  seen  at  her  lec 
tures.  The  lady  who  suggested  that  of  course  I 
ought  to  go  and  hear  Mrs.  Amyot,  was  not  very 
clear  about  anything  except  that  she  was  perfectly 
lovely,  and  had  had  a  horrid  husband,  and  was  doing 
it  to  support  her  boy.  The  subject  of  the  discourse 
(I  think  it  was  on  Ruskin)  was  clearly  of  minor  im 
portance,  not  only  to  my  friend,  but  to  the  throng  of 
well-dressed  and  absent-minded  ladies  who  rustled 
in  late,  dropped  their  muffs  and  pocket-books,  and 
undisguisedly  lost  themselves  in  the  study  of  each 
other's  apparel.  They  received  Mrs.  Amyot  with 
warmth,  but  she  evidently  represented  a  social  obli 
gation  like  going  to  church,  rather  than  any  more 
personal  interest ;  in  fact,  I  suspect  that  every  one 
of  the  ladies  would  have  remained  away,  had  they 
been  sure  that  none  of  the  others  were  coming. 

Whether  Mrs.  Amyot  was  disheartened  by  the  lack 
of  sympathy  between  herself  and  her  hearers,  or 
whether  the  sport  of  arousing  it  had  become  a  task, 
she  certainly  imparted  her  platitudes  with  less  con 
vincing  warmth  than  of  old.  Her  voice  had  the  same 
confidential  inflections,  but  it  was  like  a  voice  repro 
duced  by  a  gramophone :  the  real  woman  seemed  far 
away.  She  had  grown  stouter  without  losing  her 
dewy  freshness,  and  her  smart  gown  might  have 
[59] 


THE     PELICAN 

been  taken  to  show  either  the  potentialities  of  a 
settled  income,  or  a  politic  concession  to  the  taste 
of  her  hearers.  As  I  listened  I  reproached  myself  for 
ever  having  suspected  her  of  self-deception  in  saying 
that  she  took  no  pleasure  in  her  work.  I  was  sure 
now  that  she  did  it  only  for  Lancelot,  and  judging 
from  the  size  of  her  audience  and  the  price  of  the 
tickets  I  concluded  that  Lancelot  must  be  receiving 
a  liberal  education. 

I  was  living  in  New  York  that  winter,  and  in  the 
rotation  of  dinners  I  found  myself  one  evening  at 
Mrs.  Amyot's  side.  The  dimple  came  out  at  my 
greeting  as  punctually  as  a  cuckoo  in  a  Swiss  clock, 
and  I  detected  the  same  automatic  quality  in  the 
tone  in  which  she  made  her  usual  pretty  demand 
for  advice.  She  was  like  a  musical-box  charged  with 
popular  airs.  They  succeeded  one  another  with 
breathless  rapidity,  but  there  was  a  moment  after 
each  when  the  cylinders  scraped  and  whizzed. 

Mrs.  Amyot,  as  I  found  when  I  called  on  her,  was 
living  in  a  sunny  flat,  with  a  sitting-room  full  of  flow 
ers  and  a  tea-table  that  had  the  air  of  expecting 
visitors.  She  owned  that  she  had  been  ridiculously 
successful.  It  was  delightful,  of  course,  on  Lancelot's 
account.  Lancelot  had  been  sent  to  the  best  school 
in  the  country,  and  if  things  went  well  and  people 
didn't  tire  of  his  silly  mother  he  was  to  go  to  Har- 
[60] 


THE    PELICAN 

vard  afterwards.  During  the  next  two  or  three  years 
Mrs.  Amyot  kept  her  flat  in  New  York,  and  radiated 
art  and  literature  upon  the  suburbs.  I  saw  her  now 
and  then,  always  stouter,  better  dressed,  more  suc 
cessful  and  more  automatic :  she  had  become  a  lec- 
turing-machine. 

I  went  abroad  for  a  year  or  two  and  when  I  came 
back  she  had  disappeared.  I  asked  several  people 
about  her,  but  life  had  closed  over  her.  She  had 
been  last  heard  of  as  lecturing — still  lecturing — but 
no  one  seemed  to  know  when  or  where. 

It  was  in  Boston  that  I  found  her  at  last,  forlornly 
swaying  to  the  oscillations  of  an  overhead  strap  in  a 
crowded  trolley-car.  Her  face  had  so  changed  that  I 
lost  myself  in  a  startled  reckoning  of  the  time  that 
had  elapsed  since  our  parting.  She  spoke  to  me  shyly, 
as  though  aware  of  my  hurried  calculation,  and  con 
scious  that  in  five  years  she  ought  not  to  have  altered 
so  much  as  to  upset  my  notion  of  time.  Then  she 
seemed  to  set  it  down  to  her  dress,  for  she  nervously 
gathered  her  cloak  over  a  gown  that  asked  only  to 
be  concealed,  and  shrank  into  a  seat  behind  the  line 
of  prehensile  bipeds  blocking  the  aisle  of  the  car. 

It  was  perhaps  because  she  so  obviously  avoided  me 
that  I  felt  for  the  first  time  that  I  might  be  of  use  to 
her;  and  when  she  left  the  car  I  made  no  excuse  for 
following  her. 

[61  ] 


THE    PELICAN 

She  said  nothing  of  needing  advice  and  did  not  ask 
me  to  walk  home  with  her,  concealing,  as  we  talked, 
her  transparent  preoccupations  under  the  guise  of  a 
sudden  interest  in  all  I  had  been  doing  since  she  had 
last  seen  me.  Of  what  concerned  her,  I  learned  only 
that  Lancelot  was  well  and  that  for  the  present  she 
was  not  lecturing — she  was  tired  and  her  doctor  had 
ordered  her  to  rest.  On  the  doorstep  of  a  shabby  house 
she  paused  and  held  out  her  hand.  She  had  been  so 
glad  to  see  me  and  perhaps  if  I  were  in  Boston  again — 
the  tired  dimple,  as  it  were,  bowed  me  out  and  closed 
the  door  on  the  conclusion  of  the  phrase. 

Two  or  three  weeks  later,  at  my  club  in  New  York, 
I  found  a  letter  from  her.  In  it  she  owned  that  she  was 
troubled,  that  of  late  she  had  been  unsuccessful,  and 
that,  if  I  chanced  to  be  coming  back  to  Boston,  and 
could  spare  her  a  little  of  that  invaluable  advice  which 
— .  A  few  days  later  the  advice  was  at  her  disposal. 
She  told  me  frankly  what  had  happened.  Her  public 
had  grown  tired  of  her.  She  had  seen  it  coming  on  for 
some  time,  and  was  shrewd  enough  in  detecting  the 
causes.  She  had  more  rivals  than  formerly — younger 
women,  she  admitted,  with  a  smile  that  could  still 
afford  to  be  generous — and  then  her  audiences  had 
grown  more  critical  and  consequently  more  exacting. 
Lecturing — as  she  understood  it — used  to  be  simple 
enough.  You  chose  your  topic — Raphael,  Shakespeare, 
[62] 


THE     PELICAN 

Gothic  Architecture,  or  some  such  big  familiar  "sub 
ject" — and  read  up  about  it  for  a  week  or  so  at  the 
Athenaeum  or  the  Astor  Library,  and  then  told  your 
audience  what  you  had  read.  Now,  it  appeared,  that 
simple  process  was  no  longer  adequate.  People  had 
tired  of  familiar  "subjects"  ;  it  was  the  fashion  to  be 
interested  in  things  that  one  hadn't  always  known 
about — natural  selection,  animal  magnetism,  sociology 
and  comparative  folk-lore ;  while,  in  literature,  the 
demand  had  become  equally  difficult  to  meet,  since 
Matthew  Arnold  had  introduced  the  habit  of  study 
ing  the  "influence"  of  one  author  on  another.  She 
had  tried  lecturing  on  influences,  and  had  done  very 
well  as  long  as  the  public  was  satisfied  with  the  tra 
cing  of  such  obvious  influences  as  that  of  Turner  on 
Ruskin,  of  Schiller  on  Goethe,  of  Shakespeare  on 
English  literature ;  but  such  investigations  had  soon 
lost  all  charm  for  her  too-sophisticated  audiences,  who 
now  demanded  either  that  the  influence  or  the  influ 
enced  should  be  quite  unknown,  or  that  there  should 
be  no  perceptible  connection  between  the  two.  The 
zest  of  the  performance  lay  in  the  measure  of  inge 
nuity  with  which  the  lecturer  established  a  relation 
between  two  people  who  had  probably  never  heard 
of  each  other,  much  less  read  each  other's  works.  A 
pretty  Miss  Williams  with  red  hair  had,  for  instance, 
been  lecturing  with  great  success  on  the  influence  of 
[63] 


THE    PELICAN 

the  Rosicrucians  upon  the  poetry  of  Keats,  while  some 
body  else  had  given  a  "  course "  on  the  influence  of 
St.  Thomas  Aquinas  upon  Professor  Huxley. 

Mrs.  Amyot,  warmed  by  my  participation  in  her 
distress,,  went  on  to  say  that  the  growing  demand  for 
evolution  was  what  most  troubled  her.  Her  grandfather 
had  been  a  pillar  of  the  Presbyterian  ministry,  and  the 
idea  of  her  lecturing  on  Darwin  or  Herbert  Spencer 
was  deeply  shocking  to  her  mother  and  aunts.  In  one 
sense  the  family  had  staked  its  literary  as  well  as  its 
spiritual  hopes  on  the  literal  inspiration  of  Genesis : 
what  became  of  "  The  Fall  of  Man "  in  the  light  of 
modern  exegesis? 

The  upshot  of  it  was  that  she  had  ceased  to  lecture 
because  she  could  no  longer  sell  tickets  enough  to  pay 
for  the  hire  of  a  lecture-hall ;  and  as  for  the  managers, 
they  wouldn't  look  at  her.  She  had  tried  her  luck  all 
through  the  Eastern  States  and  as  far  south  as  Wash 
ington  ;  but  it  was  of  no  use,  and  unless  she  could  get 
hold  of  some  new  subjects — or,  better  still,  of  some 
new  audiences — she  must  simply  go  out  of  the  busi 
ness.  That  would  mean  the  failure  of  all  she  had 
worked  for,  since  Lancelot  would  have  to  leave  Har 
vard.  She  paused,  and  wept  some  of  the  unbecoming 
tears  that  spring  from  real  grief.  Lancelot,  it  appeared, 
was  to  be  a  genius.  He  had  passed  his  opening  exami 
nations  brilliantly ;  he  had  "  literary  gifts";  he  had  writ- 
[64] 


THE    PELICAN 

ten  beautiful  poetry,  much  of  which  his  mother  had 
copied  out,  in  reverentially  slanting  characters,  in  a  vel 
vet-bound  volume  which  she  drew  from  a  locked  drawer. 

Lancelot's  verse  struck  me  as  nothing  more  alarming 
than  growing-pains ;  but  it  was  not  to  learn  this  that 
she  had  summoned  me.  What  she  wanted  was  to  be  as 
sured  that  he  was  worth  working  for,  an  assurance 
which  I  managed  to  convey  by  the  simple  stratagem 
of  remarking  that  the  poems  reminded  me  of  Swin 
burne — and  so  they  did,  as  well  as  of  Browning, 
Tennyson,  Rossetti,  and  all  the  other  poets  who  sup 
ply  young  authors  with  original  inspirations. 

This  point  being  established,  it  remained  to  be  de 
cided  by  what  means  his  mother  was,  in  the  French 
phrase,  to  pay  herself  the  luxury  of  a  poet.  It  was  clear 
that  this  indulgence  could  be  bought  only  with  coun 
terfeit  coin,  and  that  the  one  way  of  helping  Mrs. 
Amyot  was  to  become  a  party  to  the  circulation  of 
such  currency.  My  fetish  of  intellectual  integrity  went 
down  like  a  ninepin  before  the  appeal  of  a  woman  no 
longer  yourg  and  distinctly  foolish,  but  full  of  those 
dear  contradictions  and  irrelevancies  that  will  always 
make  flesh  and  blood  prevail  against  a  syllogism.  When 
I  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Amyot  I  had  promised  her  a  dozen 
letters  to  Western  universities  and  had  half  pledged 
myself  to  sketch  out  a  lecture  on  the  reconciliation  of 
science  and  religion. 

[65] 


THE     PELICAN 

In  the  West  she  achieved  a  success  which  for  a  year 
or  more  embittered  my  perusal  of  the  morning  papers. 
The  fascination  that  lures  the  murderer  back  to  the 
scene  of  his  crime  drew  my  eye  to  every  paragraph  cel 
ebrating  Mrs.  Amyot's  last  brilliant  lecture  on  the 
influence  of  something  upon  somebody ;  and  her  own 
letters — she  overwhelmed  me  with  them — spared  me 
no  detail  of  the  entertainment  given  in  her  honor  by 
the  Palimpsest  Club  of  Omaha  or  of  her  reception  at 
the  University  of  Leadville.  The  college  professors 
were  especially  kind:  she  assured  me  that  she  had 
never  before  met  with  such  discriminating  sympathy. 
I  winced  at  the  adjective,  which  cast  a  sudden  light 
on  the  vast  machinery  of  fraud  that  I  had  set  in  mo 
tion.  All  over  my  native  land,  men  of  hitherto  unblem 
ished  integrity  were  conniving  with  me  in  urging  their 
friends  to  go  and  hear  Mrs.  Amyot  lecture  on  the  re 
conciliation  of  science  and  religion !  My  only  hope  was 
that,  somewhere  among  the  number  of  my  accomplices, 
Mrs.  Amyot  might  find  one  who  would  marry  her  in 
the  defense  of  his  convictions. 

None,  apparently,  resorted  to  such  heroic  measures ; 
for  about  two  years  later  I  was  startled  by  the  an 
nouncement  that  Mrs.  Amyot  was  lecturing  in  Tren 
ton,  New  Jersey,  on  modern  theosophy  in  the  light  of 
the  Vedas.  The  following  week  she  was  at  Newark, 
discussing  Schopenhauer  in  the  light  of  recent  psychol- 
[66] 


THE    PELICAN 

ogy.  The  week  after  that  I  was  on  the  deck  of  an 
ocean  steamer,  reconsidering  my  share  in  Mrs.  Amyot's 
triumphs  with  the  impartiality  with  which  one  views 
an  episode  that  is  being  left  behind  at  the  rate  of 
twenty  knots  an  hour.  After  all,  I  had  been  helping  a 
mother  to  educate  her  son. 

The  next  ten  years  of  my  life  were  spent  in  Europe, 
and  when  I  came  home  the  recollection  of  Mrs.  Amyot 
had  become  as  inoffensive  as  one  of  those  pathetic 
ghosts  who  are  said  to  strive  in  vain  to  make  them 
selves  visible  to  the  living.  I  did  not  even  notice  the 
fact  that  I  no  longer  heard  her  spoken  of;  she  had 
dropped  like  a  dead  leaf  from  the  bough  of  memory. 

A  year  or  two  after  my  return  I  was  condemned  to 
one  of  the  worst  punishments  a  worker  can  undergo — 
an  enforced  holiday.  The  doctors  who  pronounced  the 
inhuman  sentence  decreed  that  it  should  be  worked 
out  in  the  South,  and  for  a  whole  winter  I  carried  my 
cough,  my  thermometer  and  my  idleness  from  one 
fashionable  orange-grove  to  another.  In  the  vast  and 
melancholy  sea  of  my  disoccupation  I  clutched  like  a 
drowning  man  at  any  human  driftwood  within  reach.  I 
took  a  critical  and  depreciatory  interest  in  the  coughs, 
the  thermometers  and  the  idleness  of  my  fellow-suf 
ferers  ;  but  to  the  healthy,  the  occupied,  the  transient 
I  clung  with  undiscriminating  enthusiasm. 

In  no  other  way  can  I  explain,  as  I  look  back  on  it, 
[67] 


THE    PELICAN 

the  importance  I  attached  to  the  leisurely  confidences 
of  a  new  arrival  with  a  brown  beard  who,  tilted  back 
at  my  side  on  a  hotel  veranda  hung  with  roses,  im 
parted  to  me  one  afternoon  the  simple  annals  of  his 
past.  There  was  nothing  in  the  tale  to  kindle  the  most 
inflammable  imagination,  and  though  the  man  had  a 
pleasant  frank  face  and  a  voice  differing  agreeably 
from  the  shrill  inflections  of  our  fellow-lodgers,  it  is 
probable  that  under  different  conditions  his  discursive 
history  of  successful  business  ventures  in  a  Western 
city  would  have  affected  me  somewhat  in  the  manner 
of  a  lullaby. 

Even  at  the  time  I  was  not  sure  I  liked  his  agree 
able  voice :  it  had  a  self-importance  out  of  keeping 
with  the  humdrum  nature  of  his  story,  as  though  a 
breeze  engaged  in  shaking  out  a  table-cloth  should 
hare  fancied  itself  inflating  a  banner.  But  this  criticism 
may  have  been  a  mere  mark  of  my  own  fastidiousness, 
for  the  man  seemed  a  simple  fellow,  satisfied  with  his 
middling  fortunes,  and  already  (he  was  not  much  past 
thirty)  deep-sunk  in  conjugal  content. 

He  had  just  started  on  an  anecdote  connected  with 
the  cutting  of  his  eldest  boy's  teeth,  when  a  lady  I 
knew,  returning  from  her  late  drive,  paused  before  us 
for  a  moment  in  the  twilight,  with  the  smile  which  is 
the  feminine  equivalent  of  beads  to  savages. 

"Won't  you  take  a  ticket?"  she  said  sweetly. 
[68] 


THE    PELICAN 

Of  course  I  would  take  a  ticket — but  for  what?  I 
ventured  to  inquire. 

"Oh,  that's  so  good  of  you  —  for  the  lecture  this 
evening.  You  needn't  go,  you  know;  we're  none  of  us 
going ;  most  of  us  have  been  through  it  already  at 
Aiken  and  at  Saint  Augustine  and  at  Palm  Beach.  I've 
given  away  my  tickets  to  some  new  people  who've  just 
come  from  the  North,  and  some  of  us  are  going  to  send 
our  maids,  just  to  fill  up  the  room." 

"And  may  I  ask  to  whom  you  are  going  to  pay  this 
delicate  attention?" 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  knew — to  poor  Mrs.  Amyot. 
She's  been  lecturing  all  over  the  South  this  winter; 
she's  simply  haunted  me  ever  since  I  left  New  York — - 
and  we  had  six  weeks  of  her  at  Bar  Harbor  last  sum 
mer  !  One  has  to  take  tickets,  you  know,  because  she 's 
a  widow  and  does  it  for  her  son — to  pay  for  his  educa 
tion.  She's  so  plucky  and  nice  about  it,  and  talks  about 
him  in  such  a  touching  unaffected  way,  that  everybody 
is  sorry  for  her,  and  we  all  simply  ruin  ourselves  in 
tickets.  I  do  hope  that  boy's  nearly  educated!" 

"  Mrs.  Amyot  ?  Mrs.  Amyot  ?  "  I  repeated.  "  Is  she 
still  educating  her  son  ?  " 

"  Oh,  do  you  know  about  her  ?  Has  she  been  at  it 
long  ?   There 's    some  comfort   in    that,  for   I  suppose 
when  the  boy's  provided   for  the  poor  thing  will   be 
able  to  take  a  rest — and  give  us  one!" 
£69] 


THE     PELICAN 

She  laughed  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Here  's  your  ticket.  Did  you  say  tickets — two  ?  Oh, 
thanks.  Of  course  you  needn't  go." 

"But  I  mean  to  go.  Mrs.  Amyot  is  an  old  friend  of 
mine." 

"  Do  you  really  ?  That 's  awfully  good  of  you.  Per 
haps  I  '11  go  too  if  I  can  persuade  Charlie  and  the 
others  to  come.  And  I  wonder" — in  a  well-directed 
aside — "  if  your  friend — ?  " 

I  telegraphed  her  under  cover  of  the  dusk  that  my 
friend  was  of  too  recent  standing  to  be  drawn  into  her 
charitable  toils,  and  she  masked  her  mistake  under  a 
rattle  of  friendly  adjurations  not  to  be  late,  and  to 
be  sure  to  keep  a  seat  for  her,  as  she  had  quite  made 
up  her  mind  to  go  even  if  Charlie  and  the  others 
would  n't. 

The  flutter  of  her  skirts  subsided  in  the  distance, 
and  my  neighbor,  who  had  half  turned  away  to  light 
a  cigar,  made  no  effort  to  reopen  the  conversation.  At 
length,  fearing  he  might  have  overheard  the  allusion 
to  himself,  I  ventured  to  ask  if  he  were  going  to  the 
lecture  that  evening. 

"Much  obliged — I  have  a  ticket,"  he  said  abruptly. 

This  struck  me  as  in  such  bad  taste  that  I  made  no 
answer ;  and  it  was  he  who  spoke  next. 

"Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that  you  were  an 
old  friend  of  Mrs.  Amyot's  ?  " 


THE    PELICAN 

"I  think  I  may  claim  to  be,  if  it  is  the  same  Mrs. 
Amyot  I  had  the  pleasure  of  knowing  many  years  ago. 
My  Mrs.  Amyot  used  to  lecture  too — 

"  To  pay  for  her  son's  education  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so." 

"Well — see  you  later." 

He  got  up  and  walked  into  the  house. 

In  the  hotel  drawing-room  that  evening  there  was 
but  a  meagre  sprinkling  of  guests,  among  whom  I  saw 
my  brown-bearded  friend  sitting  alone  on  a  sofa,  with 
his  head  against  the  wall.  It  could  not  have  been  curi 
osity  to  see  Mrs.  Amyot  that  had  impelled  him  to 
attend  the  performance,  for  it  would  have  been  im 
possible  for  him,  without  changing  his  place,  to  com 
mand  the  improvised  platform  at  the  end  of  the  room. 
When  I  looked  at  him  he  seemed  lost  in  contemplation 
of  the  chandelier. 

The  lady  from  whom  I  had  bought  my  tickets  flut 
tered  in  late,  unattended  by  Charlie  and  the  others, 
and  assuring  me  that  she  would  scream  if  we  had  the 
lecture  on  Ibsen — she  had  heard  it  three  times  al 
ready  that  winter.  A  glance  at  the  programme  reas 
sured  her:  it  informed  us  (in  the  lecturer's  own  slanting 
hand)  that  Mrs.  Amyot  was  to  lecture  on  the  Cosmog 
ony. 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  the  small  audience 
coughed  and  moved  its  chairs  and  showed  signs  of  re- 
[.71], 


THE     PELICAN 

gretting  that  it  had  come,  the  door  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Amyot  stepped  upon  the  platform.  Ah,  poor  lady ! 

Some  one  said  "  Hush ! ",  the  coughing  and  chair- 
shifting  subsided,  and  she  began. 

It  was  like  looking  at  one's  self  early  in  the  morning 
in  a  cracked  mirror.  I  had  no  idea  I  had  grown  so  old. 
As  for  Lancelot,  he  must  have  a  beard.  A  beard  ?  The 
word  struck  me,  and  without  knowing  why  I  glanced 
across  the  room  at  my  bearded  friend  on  the  sofa. 
Oddly  enough  he  was  looking  at  me,  with  a  half-de 
fiant,  half-sullen  expression  ;  and  as  our  glances  crossed, 
and  his  fell,  the  conviction  came  to  me  that  he  was 
Lancelot. 

I  don't  remember  a  word  of  the  lecture ;  and  yet 
there  were  enough  of  them  to  have  filled  a  good-sized 
dictionary.  The  stream  of  Mrs.  Amyot 's  eloquence  had 
become  a  flood :  one  had  the  despairing  sense  that  she 
•had  sprung  a  leak,  and  that  until  the  plumber  came 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  about  it. 

The  plumber  came  at  length,  in  the  shape  of  a  clock 
striking  ten ;  my  companion,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
drifted  away  in  search  of  Charlie  and  the  others ; 
the  audience  scattered  with  the  precipitation  of  peo 
ple  who  had  discharged  a  duty ;  and,  without  surprise, 
I  found  the  brown-bearded  stranger  at  my  elbow. 

We  stood  alone  in  the  bare-floored  room,  under  the 
flaring  chandelier. 

[72] 


THE     PELICAN 

"  I  think  you  told  me  this  afternoon  that  you  were 
an  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Amy  of  s  ?  "  he  began  awkwardly. 

I  assented. 

"  Will  you  come  in  and  see  her  ?  " 

"Now?  I  shall  be  very  glad  to,  if—" 

"She 's  ready ;  she 's  expecting  you,"  he  interposed. 

He  offered  no  further  explanation,  and  I  followed 
him  in  silence.  He  led  me  down  the  long  corridor,  and 
pushed  open  the  door  of  a  sitting-room. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  closing  the  door  after  we  had 
entered,  "  here  's  the  gentleman  who  says  he  used  to 
know  you." 

Mrs.  Amyot,  who  sat  in  an  easy-chair  stirring  a  cup 
of  bouillon,  looked  up  with  a  start.  She  had  evidently 
not  seen  me  in  the  audience,  and  her  son's  description 
had  failed  to  convey  my  identity.  I  saw  a  frightened 
look  in  her  eyes ;  then,  like  a  frost  flower  on  a  window- 
pane,  the  dimple  expanded  on  her  wrinkled  cheek,  and 
she  held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  'm  so  glad,"  she  said,  "  so  glad  !  " 

She  turned  to  her  son,  who  stood  watching  us.  "  You 
must  have  told  Lancelot  all  about  me — you've  known 
me  so  long !  " 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  talk  to  your  son — since  I 
knew  he  was  your  son,"  I  explained. 

Her  brow  cleared.  "Then  you  haven't  had  time  to 
say  anything  very  dreadful  ?  "  she  said  with  a  laugh. 
[73] 


THE     PELICAN 

"It  is  he  who  has  been  saying  dreadful  things,"  I 
returned,  trying  to  fall  in  with  her  tone. 

I  saw  my  mistake.  "  What  things  ?  "  she  faltered. 

"  Making  me  feel  how  old  I  am  by  telling  me  about 
his  children." 

"  My  grandchildren ! "  she  exclaimed  with  a  blush. 

"  Well,  if  you  choose  to  put  it  so." 

She  laughed  again,  vaguely,  and  was  silent.  I  hesi 
tated  a  moment  and  then  put  out  my  hand. 

"I  see  you  are  tired.  I  shouldn't  have  ventured  to 
come  in  at  this  hour  if  your  son — " 

The  son  stepped  between  us.  "Yes,  I  asked  him  to 
come,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  in  his  clear  self-asser 
tive  voice.  "I  haven't  told  him  anything  yet;  but 
you've  got  to — now.  That's  what  I  brought  him 
for." 

His  mother  straightened  herself,  but  I  saw  her  eye 
waver. 

"  Lancelot —  "she  began. 

"Mr.  Amyot,"  I  said,  turning  to  the  young  man,  "if 
your  mother  will  let  me  come  back  to-morrow,  I  shall 
be  very  glad — 

He  struck  his  hand  hard  against  the  table  on  which 
he  was  leaning. 

"  No,  sir !  It  won't  take  long,  but  it 's  got  to  be  said 
now." 

He  moved  nearer  to  his  mother,  and  I  saw  his  lip 
[74] 


THE    PELICAN 

twitch  under  his  beard.  After  all,  he  was  younger  and 
less  sure  of  himself  than  I  had  fancied. 

"  See  here,  mother,"  he  went  on,  "  there  's  some 
thing  here  that's  got  to  be  cleared  up,  and  as  you 
say  this  gentleman  is  an  old  friend  of  yours  it  had 
better  be  cleared  up  in  his  presence.  Maybe  he  can 
help  explain  it — and  if  he  can't,  it's  got  to  be  ex 
plained  to  him." 

Mrs.  Amyot's  lips  moved,  but  she  made  no  sound. 
She  glanced  at  me  helplessly  and  sat  down.  My  early 
inclination  to  thrash  Lancelot  was  beginning  to  reassert 
itself.  I  took  up  my  hat  and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"  Mrs.  Amyot  is  under  no  obligation  to  explain  any 
thing  whatever  to  me,"  I  said  curtly. 

"  Well !  She 's  under  an  obligation  to  me,  then — 
to  explain  something  in  your  presence."  He  turned 
to  her  again.  "Do  you  know  what  the  people  in  this 
hotel  are  saying  ?  Do  you  know  what  he  thinks — what 
they  all  think  ?  That  you  're  doing  this  lecturing  to 
support  me — to  pay  for  my  education!  They  say  you 
go  round  telling  them  so.  That's  what  they  buy  the 
tickets  for — they  do  it  out  of  charity.  Ask  him  if  it 
is  n't  what  they  say — ask  him  if  they  were  n't  joking 
about  it  on  the  piazza  before  dinner.  The  others  think 
I  'm  a  little  boy,  but  he  's  known  you  for  years,  and 
he  must  have  known  how  old  I  was.  He  must  have 
known  it  wasn't  to  pay  for  my  education!" 
[75] 


THE     PELICAN 

He  stood  before  her  with  his  hands  clenched,  the 
veins  beating  in  his  temples.  She  had  grown  very 
pale,  and  her  cheeks  looked  hollow.  When  she  spoke 
her  voice  had  an  odd  click  in  it. 

"  If — if  these  ladies  and  gentlemen  have  been  com 
ing  to  my  lectures  out  of  charity,  I  see  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  that —  "  she  faltered. 

"  If  they  've  been  coming  out  of  charity  to  me,"  he 
retorted,  "don't  you  see  you've  been  making  me  a 
party  to  a  fraud?  Isn't  there  any  shame  in  that?" 
His  forehead  reddened.  "Mother!  Can't  you  see  the 
shame  of  letting  people  think  I  was  ad —  beat,  who 
sponged  on  you  for  my  keep?  Let  alone  making  us 
both  the  laughing-stock  of  every  place  you  go  to ! " 

"  I  never  did  that,  Lancelot !  " 

"Did  what?" 

"  Made  you  a  laughing-stock — " 

He  stepped  close  to  her  and  caught  her  wrist. 

"  Will  you  look  me  in  the  face  and  swear  you  never 
told  people  you  were  doing  this  lecturing  business  to 
support  me  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  silence.  He  dropped  her  wrist 
and  she  lifted  a  limp  handkerchief  to  her  frightened 
eyes.  "I  did  do  it — to  support  you — to  educate  you" 
— she  sobbed. 

"We're  not  talking  about  what  you  did  when  I 
was  a  boy.  Everybody  who  knows  me  knows  I've 
[76] 


THE     PELICAN 

been   a   grateful    son.    Have    I    ever    taken   a   penny 
from  you  since  I  left  college  ten  years  ago  ? " 

"  I  never  said  you  had !  How  can  you  accuse  your 
mother  of  such  wickedness,  Lancelot?  " 

"  Have  you  never  told  anybody  in  this  hotel — or 
anywhere  else  in  the  last  ten  years — that  you  were 
lecturing  to  support  me?  Answer  me  that!" 

"How  can  you/'  she  wept,  "before  a  stranger?" 

"  Have  n't  you  said  such  things  about  me  to  stran 
gers  ?  "  he  retorted. 

"  Lancelot ! " 

"Well — answer  me,  then.  Say  you  haven't,  mo 
ther!"  His  voice  broke  unexpectedly  and  he  took 
her  hand  with  a  gentler  touch.  "  I  '11  believe  any 
thing  you  tell  me,"  he  said  almost  humbly. 

She  mistook  his  tone  and  raised  her  head  with  a 
rash  clutch  at  dignity. 

"  I  think  you  'd  better  ask  this  gentleman  to  ex 
cuse  you  first." 

"No,  by  God,  I  won't!"  he  cried.  "This  gentle 
man  says  he  knows  all  about  you  and  I  mean  him  to 
know  all  about  me  too.  I  don't  mean  that  he  or  any 
body  else  under  this  roof  shall  go  on  thinking  for< 
another  twenty-four  hours  that  a  cent  of  their  money 
has  ever  gone  into  my  pockets  since  I  was  old  enough 
to  shift  for  myself.  And  he  sha'n't  leave  this  room 
till  you  've  made  that  clear  to  him." 
[77] 


THE    PELICAN 

He  stepped  back  as  he  spoke  and  put  his  shoul 
ders  against  the  door. 

"  My  dear  young  gentleman,"  I  said  politely,  "  I 
shall  leave  this  room  exactly  when  I  see  fit  to  do  so 
—and  that  is  now.  I  have  already  told  you  that  Mrs. 
Amyot  owes  me  no  explanation  of  her  conduct." 

"But  I  owe  you  an  explanation  of  mine — you  and 
every  one  who  has  bought  a  single  one  of  her  lec 
ture  tickets.  Do  you  suppose  a  man  who's  been 
through  what  I  went  through  while  that  woman  was 
talking  to  you  in  the  porch  before  dinner  is  going 
to  hold  his  tongue,  and  not  attempt  to  justify  him 
self?  No  decent  man  is  going  to  sit  down  under  that 
sort  of  thing.  It's  enough  to  ruin  his  character.  If 
you're  my  mother's  friend,  you  owe  it  to  me  to  hear 
what  I've  got  to  say." 

He  pulled  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped  his 
forehead. 

"  Good  God,  mother ! "  he  burst  out  suddenly, 
"what  did  you  do  it  for?  Haven't  you  had  every 
thing  you  wanted  ever  since  I  was  able  to  pay  for 
it?  Haven't  I  paid  you  back  every  cent  you  spent 
on  me  when  I  was  in  college?  Have  I  ever  gone 
back  on  you  since  I  was  big  enough  to  work  ? "  He 
turned  to  me  with  a  laugh.  "  I  thought  she  did  it  to 
amuse  herself — and  because  there  was  such  a  de 
mand  for  her  lectures.  Such  a  demand!  That's  what 
[78] 


THE     PELICAN 

she  always  told  me.  When  we  asked  her  to  come 
out  and  spend  this  winter  with  us  in  Minneapolis, 
she  wrote  back  that  she  couldn't  because  she  had 
engagements  all  through  the  south,  and  her  man 
ager  wouldn't  let  her  off.  That's  the  reason  why  I 
came  all  the  way  on  here  to  see  her.  We  thought 
she  was  the  most  popular  lecturer  in  the  United 
States,  my  wife  and  I  did!  We  were  awfully  proud 
of  it  too,  I  can  tell  you."  He  dropped  into  a  chair, 
still  laughing. 

"  How  can  you,  Lancelot,  how  can  you ! "  His 
mother,  forgetful  of  my  presence,  was  clinging  to 
him  with  tentative  caresses.  "  When  you  did  n't  need 
the  money  any  longer  I  spent  it  all  on  the  children 
— you  know  I  did." 

"Yes,  on  lace  christening  dresses  and  life-size  rock 
ing-horses  with  real  manes !  The  kind  of  thing  chil 
dren  can't  do  without." 

"Oh,  Lancelot,  Lancelot — I  loved  them  so!  How 
can  you  believe  such  falsehoods  about  me  ?  " 

"  What  falsehoods  about  you  ?  " 

"That  I  ever  told  anybody  such  dreadful  things?" 

He  put  her  back  gently,  keeping  his  eyes  on  hers. 
"Did  you  never  tell  anybody  in  this  house  that  you 
were  lecturing  to  support  your  son  ?  " 

Her    hands    dropped    from    his   shoulders   and   she 
flashed  round  on  me  in  sudden  anger. 
[79] 


THE    PELICAN 

"I  know  what  I  think  of  people  who  call  them 
selves  friends  and  who  come  between  a  mother  and 
her  son ! " 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother !  "  he  groaned. 

I  went  up  to  him  and  laid  my  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"My  dear  man,"  I  said,  "don't  you  see  the  use- 
lessness  of  prolonging  this  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  do,"  he  answered  abruptly;  and  before  I 
could  forestall  his  movement  he  rose  and  walked 
out  of  the  room. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  measured  by  the  lessen 
ing  reverberations  of  his  footsteps  down  the  wooden 
floor  of  the  corridor. 

When  they  ceased  I  approached  Mrs.  Amyot,  who 
had  sunk  into  her  chair.  I  held  out  my  hand  and  she 
took  it  without  a  trace  of  resentment  on  her  ravaged 
face. 

"  I  sent  his  wife  a  seal-skin  jacket  at  Christmas ! " 
she  said,  with  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks. 


SOULS    BELATED 


SOULS     BELATED 

THEIR  railway-carriage  had  been  full  when 
the  train  left  Bologna ;  but  at  the  first  sta 
tion  beyond  Milan  their  only  remaining  com 
panion — a  courtly  person  who  ate  garlic  out  of  a  car 
pet-bag — had  left  his  crumb-strewn  seat  with  a  bow. 

Lydia's  eye  regretfully  followed  the  shiny  broad 
cloth  of  his  retreating  back  till  it  lost  itself  in  the 
cloud  of  touts  and  cab-drivers  hanging  about  the  sta 
tion  ;  then  she  glanced  across  at  Gannett  and  caught 
the  same  regret  in  his  look.  They  were  both  sorry  to 
be  alone. 

"  Par-ten-za  !"  shouted  the  guard.  The  train  vibrated 
to  a  sudden  slamming  of  doors ;  a  waiter  ran  along  the 
platform  with  a  tray  of  fossilized  sandwiches ;  a  be 
lated  porter  flung  a  bundle  of  shawls  and  band-boxes 
into  a  third-class  carriage ;  the  guard  snapped  out  a 
brief  Partenza  !  which  indicated  the  purely  ornamental 
nature  of  his  first  shout ;  and  the  train  swung  out  of 
the  station. 

The  direction  of  the  road  had  changed,  and  a  shaft 
of  sunlight  struck  across  the  dusty  red  velvet  seats 
into  Lydia's  corner.  Gannett  did  not  notice  it.  He  had 
returned  to  his  Revue  de  Paris,  and  she  had  to  rise 
and  lower  the  shade  of  the  farther  window.  Against 
[83] 


SOULS     BELATED 

the  vast  horizon  of  their  leisure  such  incidents  stood 
out  sharply. 

Having  lowered  the  shade,  Lydia  sat  down,  leaving 
the  length  of  the  carriage  between  herself  and  Gan 
nett.  At  length  he  missed  her  and  looked  up. 

"I  moved  out  of  the  sun/'  she  hastily  explained. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously :  the  sun  was  beating  on 
her  through  the  shade. 

"Very  well/'  he  said  pleasantly  ;  adding,  "You  don't 
mind?"  as  he  drew  a  cigarette-case  from  his  pocket. 

It  was  a  refreshing  touch,  relieving  the  tension  of 
her  spirit  with  the  suggestion  that,  after  all,  if  he 
could  smoke — !  The  relief  was  only  momentary.  Her 
experience  of  smokers  was  limited  (her  husband  had 
disapproved  of  the  use  of  tobacco)  but  she  knew  from 
hearsay  that  men  sometimes  smoked  to  get  away  from 
things ;  that  a  cigar  might  be  the  masculine  equiva 
lent  of  darkened  windows  and  a  headache.  Gannett, 
after  a  puff  or  two,  returned  to  his  review. 

It  was  just  as  she  had  foreseen ;  he  feared  to  speak 
as  much  as  she  did.  It  was  one  of  the  misfortunes  of 
their  situation  that  they  were  never  busy  enough  to 
necessitate,  or  even  to  justify,  the  postponement  of 
unpleasant  discussions.  If  they  avoided  a  question  it 
was  obviously,  unconcealably  because  the  question  was 
disagreeable.  They  had  unlimited  leisure  and  an  ac 
cumulation  of  mental  energy  to  devote  to  any  subject 
[84] 


SOULS     BELATED 

that  presented  itself;  new  topics  were  in  fact  at  a 
premium.  Lydia  sometimes  had  premonitions  of  a  fam 
ine-stricken  period  when  there  would  be  nothing  left 
to  talk  about,  and  she  had  already  caught  herself  dol 
ing  out  piecemeal  what,  in  the  first  prodigality  of  their 
confidences,  she  would  have  flung  to  him  in  a  breath. 
Their  silence  therefore  might  simply  mean  that  they 
had  nothing  to  say ;  but  it  was  another  disadvantage  of 
their  position  that  it  allowed  infinite  opportunity  for  the 
classification  of  minute  differences.  Lydia  had  learned 
to  distinguish  between  real  and  factitious  silences  ;  and 
under  Gannett' s  she  now  detected  a  hum  of  speech 
to  which  her  own  thoughts  made  breathless  answer. 

How  could  it  be  otherwise,  with  that  thing  between 
them?  She  glanced  up  at  the  rack  overhead.  The 
thing  was  there,  in  her  dressing-bag,  symbolically  sus 
pended  over  her  head  and  his.  He  was  thinking  of  it 
now,  just  as  she  was ;  they  had  been  thinking  of  it  in 
unison  ever  since  they  had  entered  the  train.  While 
the  carriage  had  held  other  travellers  they  had 
screened  her  from  his  thoughts ;  but  now  that  he 
and  she  were  alone  she  knew  exactly  what  was  pass 
ing  through  his  mind ;  she  could  almost  hear  him 
asking  himself  what  he  should  say  to  her.  .  .  . 

The  thing  had  come  that  morning,  brought  up  to  her 
in  an  innocent-looking  envelope  with  the  rest  of  theii1 
[85] 


SOULS     BELATED 

letters,  as  they  were  leaving  the  hotel  at  Bologna.  As 
she  tore  it  open,  she  and  Gannett  were  laughing  over 
some  ineptitude  of  the  local  guide-book — they  had 
been  driven,  of  late,  to  make  the  most  of  such  inci 
dental  humors  of  travel.  Even  when  she  had  unfolded 
the  document  she  took  it  for  some  unimportant  busi 
ness  paper  sent  abroad  for  her  signature,  and  her  eye 
travelled  inattentively  over  the  curly  Wher eases  of  the 
preamble  until  a  word  arrested  her:  —  Divorce.  There 
it  stood,  an  impassable  barrier,  between  her  husband' ?> 
name  and  hers. 

She  had  been  prepared  for  it,  of  course,  as  healthy 
people  are  said  to  be  prepared  for  death,  in  the  sense 
of  knowing  it  must  come  without  in  the  least  expect 
ing  that  it  will.  She  had  known  from  the  first  that 
Tillotson  meant  to  divorce  her — but  what  did  it  mat 
ter  ?  Nothing  mattered,  in  those  first  days  of  supreme 
deliverance,  but  the  fact  that  she  was  free ;  and  not 
so  much  (she  had  begun  to  be  aware)  that  freedom 
had  released  her  from  Tillotson  as  that  it  had  given 
her  to  Gannett.  This  discovery  had  not  been  agree 
able  to  her  self-esteem.  She  had  preferred  to  think 
that  Tillotson  had  himself  embodied  all  her  reasons 
for  leaving  him ;  and  those  he  represented  had  seemed 
cogent  enough  to  stand  in  no  need  of  reinforcement. 
Yet  she  had  not  left  him  till  she  met  Gannett.  It  was 
her  love  for  Gannett  that  had  made  life  with  Tillotson 
[86] 


SOULS     BELATED 

so  poor  and  incomplete  a  business.  If  she  had  never, 
from  the  first,  regarded  her  marriage  as  a  full  cancel 
ling  of  her  claims  upon  life,  she  had  at  least,  for  a 
number  of  years,  accepted  it  as  a  provisional  compen 
sation, — she  had  made  it  "do."  Existence  in  the  com 
modious  Tillotson  mansion  in  Fifth  Avenue — with  Mrs. 
Tillotson  senior  commanding  the  approaches  from  the 
second-story  front  windows — had  been  reduced  to  a 
series  of  purely  automatic  acts.  The  moral  atmosphere 
of  the  Tillotson  interior  was  as  carefully  screened  and 
curtained  as  the  house  itself:  Mrs.  Tillotson  senior 
dreaded  ideas  as  much  as  a  draught  in  her  back. 
Prudent  people  liked  an  even  temperature;  and  to 
do  anything  unexpected  was  as  foolish  as  going  out 
in  the  rain.  One  of  the  chief  advantages  of  being  rich 
was  that  one  need  not  be  exposed  to  unforeseen  con 
tingencies  :  by  the  use  of  ordinary  firmness  and  com 
mon  sense  one  could  make  sure  of  doing  exactly  the 
same  thing  every  day  at  the  same  hour.  These  doc 
trines,  reverentially  imbibed  with  his  mother's  milk, 
Tillotson  (a  model  son  who  had  never  given  his  par 
ents  an  hour's  anxiety)  complacently  expounded  to 
his  wife,  testifying  to  his  sense  of  their'  importance 
by  the  regularity  with  which  he  wore  goloshes  on 
damp  days,  his  punctuality  at  meals,  and  his  elaborate 
precautions  against  burglars  and  contagious  diseases. 
Lydia,  coming  from  a  smaller  town,  and  entering  New 
[87] 


SOULS     BELATED 

York  life  through  the  portals  of  the  Tillotson  mansion, 
had  mechanically  accepted  this  point  of  view  as  in 
separable  from  having  a  front  pew  in  church  and  a 
parterre  box  at  the  opera.  All  the  people  who  came 
to  the  house  revolved  in  the  same  small  circle  of 
prejudices.  It  was  the  kind  of  society  in  which,  after 
dinner,  the  ladies  compared  the  exorbitant  charges  of 
their  children's  teachers,  and  agreed  that,  even  with 
the  new  duties  on  French  clothes,  it  was  cheaper  in 
the  end  to  get  everything  from  Worth ;  while  the 
husbands,  over  their  cigars,  lamented  municipal  cor 
ruption,  and  decided  that  the  men  to  start  a  reform 
were  those  who  had  no  private  interests  at  stake. 

To  Lydia  this  view  of  life  had  become  a  matter  of 
course,  just  as  lumbering  about  in  her  mother-in-law's 
landau  had  come  to  seem  the  only  possible  means  of 
locomotion,  and  listening  every  Sunday  to  a  fashion 
able  Presbyterian  divine  the  inevitable  atonement  for 
having  thought  oneself  bored  on  the  other  six  days 
of  the  week.  Before  she  met  Gannett  her  life  had 
seemed  merely  dull :  his  coming  made  it  appear  like 
one  of  those  dismal  Cruikshank  prints  in  which  the 
people  are  all  ugly  and  all  engaged  in  occupations 
that  are  either  vulgar  or  stupid. 

It  was  natural  that  Tillotson  should  be  the  chief 
sufferer  from  this  readjustment  of  focus.  Gannett's 
nearness  had  made  her  husband  ridiculous,  and  a 
[88] 


SOULS     BELATED 

part  of  the  ridicule  had  been  reflected  on  herself. 
Her  tolerance  laid  her  open  to  a  suspicion  of  obtuse- 
ness  from  which  she  must,  at  all  costs,  clear  herself 
in  Gannett's  eyes. 

She  did  not  understand  this  until  afterwards.  At 
the  time  she  fancied  that  she  had  merely  reached 
the  limits  of  endurance.  In  so  large  a  charter  of  lib 
erties  as  the  mere  act  of  leaving  Tillotson  seemed 
to  confer,  the  small  question  of  divorce  or  no  divorce 
did  not  count.  It  was  when  she  saw  that  she  had 
left  her  husband  only  to  be  with  Gannett  that  she 
perceived  the  significance  of  anything  affecting  their 
relations.  Her  husband,  in  casting  her  off,  had  vir 
tually  flung  her  at  Gannett :  it  was  thus  that  the 
world  viewed  it.  The  measure  of  alacrity  with  which 
Gannett  would  receive  her  would  be  the  subject  of 
curious  speculation  over  afternoon-tea  tables  and  in 
club  corners.  She  knew  what  would  be  said — she  had 
heard  it  so  often  of  others !  The  recollection  bathed 
her  in  misery.  The  men  would  probably  back  Gannett 
to  "do  the  decent  thing";  but  the  ladies'  eye-brows 
would  emphasize  the  worthlessness  of  such  enforced 
fidelity ;  and  after  all,  they  would  be  right.  She  had 
put  herself  in  a  position  where  Gannett  "  owed  "  her 
something ;  where,  as  a  gentleman,  he  was  bound  to 
"  stand  the  damage."  The  idea  of  accepting  such  com 
pensation  had  never  crossed  her  mind ;  the  so-called 
[89] 


SOULS     BELATED 

rehabilitation  of  such  a  marriage  had  always  seemed 
to  her  the  only  real  disgrace.  What  she  dreaded  was 
the  necessity  of  having  to  explain  herself;  of  having 
to  combat  his  arguments ;  of  calculating,  in  spite  of 
herself,  the  exact  measure  of  insistence  with  which 
he  pressed  them.  She  knew  not  whether  she  most 
shrank  from  his  insisting  too  much  or  too  little.  In 
such  a  case  the  nicest  sense  of  proportion  might  be 
at  fault ;  and  how  easy  to  fall  into  the  error  of  taking 
her  resistance  for  a  test  of  his  sincerity!  Whichever 
way  she  turned,  an  ironical  implication  confronted  her : 
she  had  the  exasperated  sense  of  having  walked  into 
the  trap  of  some  stupid  practical  joke. 

Beneath  all  these  preoccupations  lurked  the  dread 
of  what  he  was  thinking.  Sooner  or  later,  of  course, 
he  would  have  to  speak ;  but  that,  in  the  meantime, 
he  should  think,  even  for  a  moment,  that  there  was 
any  use  in  speaking,  seemed  to  her  simply  unendura 
ble.  Her  sensitiveness  on  this  point  was  aggravated 
by  another  fear,  as  yet  barely  on  the  level  of  con 
sciousness  ;  the  fear  of  unwillingly  involving  Gannett 
in  the  trammels  of  her  dependence.  To  look  upon  him 
as  the  instrument  of  her  liberation ;  to  resist  in  herself 
the  least  tendency  to  a  wifely  taking  possession  of  his 
future ;  had  seemed  to  Lydia  the  one  way  of  maintain 
ing  the  dignity  of  their  relation.  Her  view  had  not 
changed,  but  she  was  aware  of  a  growing  inability  to 
[90] 


SOULS     BELATED 

keep  her  thoughts  fixed  on  the  essential  point — the 
point  of  parting  with  Gannett.  It  was  easy  to  face  as 
long  as  she  kept  it  sufficiently  far  off:  but  what  was 
this  act  of  mental  postponement  but  a  gradual  en 
croachment  on  his  future  ?  What  was  needful  was 
the  courage  to  recognize  the  moment  when,  by  some 
word  or  look,  their  voluntary  fellowship  should  be 
transformed  into  a  bondage  the  more  wearing  that  it 
was  based  on  none  of  those  common  obligations  which 
make  the  most  imperfect  marriage  in  some  sort  a 
centre  of  gravity. 

When  the  porter,  at  the  next  station,  threw  the 
door  open,  Lydia  drew  back,  making  way  for  the 
hoped-for  intruder;  but  none  came,  and  the  train 
took  up  its  leisurely  progress  through  the  spring 
wheat-fields  and  budding  copses.  She  now  began  to 
hope  that  Gannett  would  speak  before  the  next 
station.  She  watched  him  furtively,  half-disposed  to 
return  to  the  seat  opposite  his,  but  there  was  an 
artificiality  about  his  absorption  that  restrained  her. 
She  had  never  before  seen  him  read  with  so  con 
spicuous  an  air  of  warding  off  interruption.  What 
could  he  be  thinking  of?  Why  should  he  be  afraid 
to  speak  ?  Or  was  it  her  answer  that  he  dreaded  ? 

The  train  paused  for  the  passing  of  an  express,  and 
he  put  down  his  book  and  leaned  out  of  the  window. 
Presently  he  turned  to  her  with  a  smile. 
[91] 


SOULS    BELATED 

(( There  's  a  jolly  old  villa  out  here/'  he  said. 

His  easy  tone  relieved  her.,  and  she  smiled  back  at 
him  as  she  crossed  over  to  his  corner. 

Beyond  the  embankment,  through  the  opening  in 
a  mossy  wall,  she  caught  sight  of  the  villa,  with  its 
broken  balustrades,  its  stagnant  fountains,  and  the  stone 
satyr  closing  the  perspective  of  a  dusky  grass-walk. 

"How  should  you  like  to  live  there?"  he  asked 
as  the  train  moved  on. 

"  There  ? " 

"  In  some  such  p±ace,  I  mean.  One  might  do  worse, 
don't  you  think  so?  There  must  be  at  least  two  cen 
turies  of  solitude  under  those  yew-trees.  Shouldn't 
you  like  it?" 

"I — I  don't  know,"  she  faltered.  She  knew  now 
that  he  meant  to  speak. 

He  lit  another  cigarette.  "We  shall  have  to  live 
somewhere,  you  know/'  he  said  as  he  bent  above  the 
match. 

Lydia  tried  to  speak  carelessly.  "  Je  nen  vois  pas  la 
necessite !  Why  not  live  everywhere,  as  we  have  been 
doing  ?  " 

"  But  we  can't  travel  forever,  can  we  ?  " 

"Oh,  forever's  a  long  word,"  she  objected,  picking 
up  the  review  he  had  thrown  aside. 

"For  the  rest  of  our  lives  then,"  he  said,  moving 
nearer. 

[92  J 


SOULS     BELATED 

She  made  a  slight  gesture  which  caused  his  hand 
to  slip  from  hers. 

"  Why  should  we  make  plans  ?  I  thought  you  agreed 
with  me  that  it's  pleasanter  to  drift." 

He  looked  at  her  hesitatingly.  "It's  been  pleasant, 
certainly ;  but  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  get  at  my  work 
again  some  day.  You  know  I  haven't  written  a  line 
since — all  this  time/'  he  hastily  emended. 

She  flamed  with  sympathy  and  self-reproach.  "Oh, 
if  you  mean  that — if  you  want  to  write — of  course 
we  must  settle  down.  How  stupid  of  me  not  to  have 
thought  of  it  sooner!  Where  shall  we  go?  Where  do 
you  think  you  could  work  best  ?  We  ought  n't  to  lose 
any  more  time." 

He  hesitated  again.  "I  had  thought  of  a  villa  in 
these  parts.  It 's  quiet ;  we  should  n't  be  bothered. 
Should  you  like  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  should  like  it."  She  paused  and  looked 
away.  "But  I  thought  —  I  remember  your  telling  me 
once  that  your  best  work  had  been  done  in  a  crowd — 
in  big  cities.  Why  should  you  shut  yourself  up  in  a 
desert?" 

Gannett,  for  a  moment,  made  no  reply.  At  length 
he  said,  avoiding  her  eye  as  carefully  as  she  avoided 
his  :  "  It  might  be  different  now  ;  I  can't  tell,  of  course, 
till  I  try.  A  writer  ought  not  to  be  dependent  on  his 
milieu;  it's  a  mistake  to  humor  oneself  in  that  way; 
[93] 


SOULS    BELATED 

and  I  thought   that  just  at  first  you  might  prefer  to 
be—" 

She  faced  him.  "  To  be  what  ?  " 

"Well — quiet.  I  mean— 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  at  first '  ?  "  she  interrupted. 

He  paused  again.  "  I  mean  after  we  are  married.  " 

She  thrust  up  her  chin  and  turned  toward  the  win 
dow.  "  Thank  you ! "  she  tossed  back  at  him. 

"  Lydia ! "  he  exclaimed  blankly  ;  and  she  felt  in 
every  fibre  of  her  averted  person  that  he  had  made 
the  inconceivable,  the  unpardonable  mistake  of  antici 
pating  her  acquiescence. 

The  train  rattled  on  and  he  groped  for  a  third 
cigarette.  Lydia  remained  silent. 

"I  haven't  offended  you?"  he  ventured  at  length, 
in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  feels  his  way. 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  sigh.  "I  thought  you 
understood/'  she  moaned.  Their  eyes  met  and  she 
moved  back  to  his  side. 

"Do  you  want  to  know  how  not  to  offend  me?  By 
taking  it  for  granted,  once  for  all,  that  you  've  said 
your  say  on  this  odious  question  and  that  I  've  said 
mine,  and  that  we  stand  just  where  we  did  this  morn 
ing  before  that — that  hateful  paper  came  to  spoil 
everything  between  us  !  " 

"To  spoil  everything  between  us>  What  on  earth 
do  you  mean?  Aren't  you  glad  to  be  free?" 
[94] 


SOULS     BELATED 

"  I  was  free  before." 

"Not  to  marry  me/'  he  suggested. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  marry  you ! "  she  cried. 

She  saw  that  he  turned  pale.  "  I  'm  obtuse,  I  sup 
pose/'  he  said  slowly.  "  I  confess  I  don't  see  what 
you're  driving  at.  Are  you  tired  of  the  whole  busi 
ness  ?  Or  was  I  simply  a — an  excuse  for  getting  away  ? 
Perhaps  you  did  n't  care  to  travel  alone  ?  Was  that 
it?  And  now  you  want  to  chuck  me?"  His  voice  had 
grown  harsh.  "You  owe  me  a  straight  answer,  you 
know  ;  don't  be  tender-hearted !  " 

Her  eyes  swam  as  she  leaned  to  him.  "Don't  you 
see  it's  because  I  care — because  I  care  so  much?  Oh, 
Ralph !  Can't  you  see  how  it  would  humiliate  me  ? 
Try  to  feel  it  as  a  woman  would !  Don't  you  see  the 
misery  of  being  made  your  wife  in  this  way?  If  I'd 
known  you  as  a  girl — that  would  have  been  a  real 
marriage !  But  now — this  vulgar  fraud  upon  society — 
arid  upon  a  society  we  despised  and  laughed  at — this 
sneaking  back  into  a  position  that  we  've  voluntarily 
forfeited :  don't  you  see  what  a  cheap  compromise  it 
is  ?  We  neither  of  us  believe  in  the  abstract  f  sacred- 
ness  '  of  marriage  ;  we  both  know  that  no  ceremony 
is  needed  to  consecrate  our  love  for  each  other ;  what 
object  can  we  have  in  marrying,  except  the  secret  fear 
of  each  that  the  other  may  escape,  or  the  secret  long 
ing  to  work  our  way  back  gradually — oh,  very  gradu- 
[95] 


SOULS     BELATED 

ally — into  the  esteem  of  the  people  whose  conven 
tional  morality  we  have  always  ridiculed  and  hated? 
And  the  very  fact  that,  after  a  decent  interval,  these 
same  people  would  come  and  dine  with  us — the  wo 
men  who  talk  about  the  indissolubility  of  marriage, 
and  who  would  let  me  die  in  a  gutter  to-day  because 
I  am  c leading  a  life  of  sin' — doesn't  that  disgust  you 
more  than  their  turning  their  backs  on  us  now  ?  I  can 
stand  being  cut  by  them,  but  I  couldn't  stand  their 
coming  to  call  and  asking  what  I  meant  to  do  about 
visiting  that  unfortunate  Mrs.  So-and-so ! " 

She  paused,  and  Gannett  maintained  a  perplexed 
silence. 

"You  judge  things  too  theoretically,"  he  said  at 
length,  slowly.  "Life  is  made  up  of  compromises." 

"  The  life  we  ran  away  from — yes  !  If  we  had  been 
willing  to  accept  them"  —  she  flushed — "we  might  have 
gone  on  meeting  each  other  at  Mrs.  Tillotson's  dinners." 

He  smiled  slightly.  "I  didn't  know  that  we  ran 
away  to  found  a  new  system  of  ethics.  I  supposed  it 
was  because  we  loved  each  other." 

"  Life  is  complex,  of  course  ;  is  n't  it  the  very  recog 
nition  of  that  fact  that  separates  us  from  the  people 
who  see  it  tout  d'une  piece  ?  If  they  are  right — if  mar 
riage  is  sacred  in  itself  and  the  individual  must  always 
be  sacrificed  to  the  family — then  there  can  be  no  real 
marriage  between  us,  since  our — our  being  together  is 
[96] 


SOULS     BELATED 

a  protest  against  the  sacrifice  of  the  individual  to  the 
family."  She  interrupted  herself  with  a  laugh.  "You'll 
say  now  that  I  'm  giving  you  a  lecture  on  sociology ! 
Of  course  one  acts  as  one  can — as  one  must,  perhaps 
—pulled  by  all  sorts  of  invisible  threads ;  but  at  least 
one  need  n't  pretend,  for  social  advantages,  to  sub 
scribe  to  a  creed  that  ignores  the  complexity  of  human 
motives — that  classifies  people  by  arbitrary  signs,  and 
puts  it  in  everybody's  reach  to  be  on  Mrs.  Tillotson's 
visiting-list.  It  may  be  necessary  that  the  world  should 
be  ruled  by  conventions — but  if  we  believed  in  them, 
why  did  we  break  through  them  ?  And  if  we  don't  be 
lieve  in  them,  is  it  honest  to  take  advantage  of  the 
protection  they  afford  ?  " 

Gannett  hesitated.  "  One  may  believe  in  them  or 
not ;  but  as  long  as  they  do  rule  the  world  it  is  only 
by  taking  advantage  of  their  protection  that  one  can 
find  a  modus  vivendi" 

"  Do  outlaws  need  a  modus  Vivendi  ? " 

He  looked  at  her  hopelessly.  Nothing  is  more  per 
plexing  to  man  than  the  mental  process  of  a  woman 
who  reasons  her  emotions. 

She  thought  she  had  scored  a  point  and  followed  it 
up  passionately.  "  You  do  understand,  don't  you  ?  You 
see  how  the  very  thought  of  the  thing  humiliates  me ! 
We  are  together  to-day  because  we  choose  to  be — 
don't  let  us  look  any  farther  than  that !  "  She  caught 
[97] 


SOULS     BELATED 

his  hands.  "Promise  me  you  '11  never  speak  of  it  again ; 
promise  me  you  '11  never  think  of  it  even/'  she  implored, 
with  a  tearful  prodigality  of  italics. 

Through  what  followed — his  protests,  his  arguments, 
his  final  unconvinced  submission  to  her  wishes — she 
had  a  sense  of  his  but  half-discerning  all  that,  for 
her,  had  made  the  moment  so  tumultuous.  They  had 
reached  that  memorable  point  in  every  heart-history 
when,  for  the  first  time,  the  man  seems  obtuse  and 
the  woman  irrational.  It  was  the  abundance  of  his 
intentions  that  consoled  her,  on  reflection,  for  what 
they  lacked  in  quality.  After  all,  it  would  have  been 
worse,  incalculably  worse,  to  have  detected  any  over- 
readiness  to  understand  her. 

II 

WHEN  the  train  at  night-fall  brought  them  to 
their  journey's  end  at  the  edge  of  one  of  the 
lakes,  Lydia  was  glad  that  they  were  not,  as  usual,  to 
pass  from  one  solitude  to  another.  Their  wanderings 
during  the  year  had  indeed  been  like  the  flight  of 
outlaws :  through  Sicily,  Dalmatia,  Transylvania  and 
Southern  Italy  they  had  persisted  in  their  tacit  avoid 
ance  of  their  kind.  Isolation,  at  first,  had  deepened 
the  flavor  of  their  happiness,  as  night  intensifies  the 
scent  of  certain  flowers ;  but  in  the  new  phase  on  which 
[98] 


SOULS     BELATED 

they  were  entering,  Lydia's  chief  wish  was  that  they 
should  be  less  abnormally  exposed  to  the  action  of 
each  other's  thoughts. 

She  shrank,  nevertheless,  as  the  brightly-looming 
bulk  of  the  fashionable  Anglo-American  hotel  on  the 
water's  brink  began  to  radiate  toward  their  advancing 
boat  its  vivid  suggestion  of  social  order,  visitors'  lists, 
Church  services,  and  the  bland  inquisition  of  the  table- 
d'hote.  The  mere  fact  that  in  a  moment  or  two  she  must 
take  her  place  on  the  hotel  register  as  Mrs.  Gannett 
seemed  to  weaken  the  springs  of  her  resistance. 

They  had  meant  to  stay  for  a  night  only,  on  their 
way  to  a  lofty  village  among  the  glaciers  of  Monte 
Rosa ;  but  after  the  first  plunge  into  publicity,  when 
they  entered  the  dining-room,  Lydia  felt  the  relief  of 
being  lost  in  a  crowd,  of  ceasing  for  a  moment  to  be 
the  centre  of  Gannett's  scrutiny ;  and  in  his  face  she 
caught  the  reflection  of  her  feeling.  After  dinner, 
when  she  went  upstairs,  he  strolled  into  the  smoking- 
room,  and  an  hour  or  two  later,  sitting  in  the  darkness 
of  her  window,  she  heard  his  voice  below  and  saw  him 
walking  up  and  down  the  terrace  with  a  companion 
cigar  at  his  side.  When  he  came  up  he  told  her  he 
had  been  talking  to  the  hotel  chaplain — a  very  good 
sort  of  fellow. 

"Queer  little  microcosms,  these  hotels!  Most  of 
these  people  live  here  all  summer  and  then  migrate 
[99] 


SOULS     BELATED 

to  Italy  or  the  Riviera.  The  English  are  the  only 
people  who  can  lead  that  kind  of  life  with  dignity — 
those  soft-voiced  old  ladies  in  Shetland  shawls  some 
how  carry  the  British  Empire  under  their  caps.  Civis 
Romanics  sum.  It's  a  curious  study — there  might  be 
some  good  things  to  work  up  here." 

He  stood  before  her  with  the  vivid  preoccupied 
stare  of  the  novelist  on  the  trail  of  a  "subject."  With 
a  relief  that  was  half  painful  she  noticed  that,  for  the 
first  time  since  they  had  been  together,  he  was  hardly 
aware  of  her  presence. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  write  here  ?  " 

"Here?  I  don't  know."  His  stare  dropped.  "After 
being  out  of  things  so  long  one's  first  impressions  are 
bound  to  be  tremendously  vivid,  you  know.  I  see  a 
dozen  threads  already  that  one  might  follow — " 

He  broke  off  with  a  touch  of  embarrassment. 

"  Then  follow  them.  We  '11  stay,"  she  said  with  sud 
den  decision. 

"  Stay  here  ? "  He  glanced  at  her  in  surprise,  and 
then,  walking  to  the  window,  looked  out  upon  the 
dusky  slumber  of  the  garden. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  said  at  length,  in  a  tone  of  veiled 
irritation. 

"The  place  is  full  of  old  cats  in  caps  who  gossip 
with  the  chaplain.  Shall  you  like — I  mean,  it  would 
be  different  if — " 

[  100  ] 


SOULS    BELATED 

She  flamed  up. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  care?  It's  none  of  their  busi 
ness." 

"Of  course  not;  but  you  won't  get  them  to  think 
so." 

"  They  may  think  what  they  please." 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully. 

"  It 's  for  you  to  decide." 

"We'll  stay/'  she  repeated. 

Gannett,  before  they  met,  had  made  himself  known 
&g  a  successful  writer  of  short  stories  and  of  a  novel 
which  had  achieved  the  distinction  of  being  widely 
discussed.  The  reviewers  called  him  "promising,"  and 
Lydia  now  accused  herself  of  having  too  long  inter 
fered  with  the  fulfilment  of  his  promise.  There  was 
a  special  irony  in  the  fact,  since  his  passionate  assur 
ances  that  only  the  stimulus  of  her  companionship 
could  bring  out  his  latent  faculty  had  almost  given 
the  dignity  of  a  "  vocation  "  to  her  course :  there  had 
been  moments  when  she  had  felt  unable  to  assume, 
before  posterity,  the  responsibility  of  thwarting  his 
career.  And,  after  all,  he  had  not  written  a  line  since 
they  had  been  together:  his  first  desire  to  write  had 
come  from  renewed  contact  with  the  world!  Was  it 
all  a  mistake  then?  Must  the  most  intelligent  choice 
work  more  disastrously  than  the  blundering  combina 
tions  of  chance  ?  Or  was  there  a  still  more  humiliating 

[  101  ] 


SOULS     BELATED 

answer  to  her  perplexities?  His  sudden  impulse  of 
activity  so  exactly  coincided  with  her  own  wish  to 
withdraw,  for  a  time,  from  the  range  of  his  observa 
tion,  that  she  wondered  if  he  too  were  not  seeking 
sanctuary  from  intolerable  problems. 

"  You  must  begin  to-morrow ! "  she  cried,  hiding  a 
tremor  under  the  laugh  with  which  she  added,  "I 
wonder  if  there's  any  ink  in  the  inkstand  ?  " 

Whatever  else  they  had  at  the  Hotel  Bellosguardo, 
they  had,  as  Miss  Pinsent  said,  "  a  certain  tone."  It 
was  to  Lady  Susan  Condit  that  they  owed  this  ines 
timable  benefit;  an  advantage  ranking  in  Miss  Pin- 
sent' s  opinion  above  even  the  lawn  tennis  courts  and 
the  resident  chaplain.  It  was  the  fact  of  Lady  Susan's 
annual  visit  that  made  the  hotel  what  it  was.  Miss 
Pinsent  was  certainly  the  last  to  underrate  such  a 
privilege: — "It's  so  important,  my  dear,  forming  as 
we  do  a  little  family,  that  there  should  be  some  one 
to  give  the  tone;  and  no  one  could  do  it  better  than 
Lady  Susan — an  earl's  daughter  and  a  person  of  such 
determination.  Dear  Mrs.  Ainger  now — who  really 
ought,  you  know,  when  Lady  Susan's  away — abso 
lutely  refuses  to  assert  herself."  Miss  Pinsent  sniffed 
derisively.  "A  bishop's  niece! — my  dear,  I  saw  her 
once  actually  give  in  to  some  South  Americans — and 
before  us  all.  She  gave  up  her  seat  at  table  to  oblige 
[  102  ] 


SOULS     BELATED 

them — such  a  lack  of  dignity!  Lady  Susan  spoke  to 
her  very  plainly  about  it  afterwards." 

Miss  Pinsent  glanced  across  the  lake  and  adjusted 
her  auburn  front. 

"But  of  course  I  don't  deny  that  the  stand  Lady 
Susan  takes  is  not  always  easy  to  live  up  to — for 
the  rest  of  us,  I  mean.  Monsieur  Grossart,  our  good 
proprietor,  finds  it  trying  at  times,  I  know  —  he  has 
said  as  much,  privately,  to  Mrs.  Ainger  and  me.  After 
all,  the  poor  man  is  not  to  blame  for  wanting  to  fill 
his  hotel,  is  he  ?  And  Lady  Susan  is  so  difficult — so 
very  difficult — about  new  people.  One  might  almost 
say  that  she  disapproves  of  them  beforehand,  on  prin 
ciple.  And  yet  she's  had  warnings — she  very  nearly 
made  a  dreadful  mistake  once  with  the  Duchess  of 
Levens,  who  dyed  her  hair  and — well,  swore  and 
smoked.  One  would  have  thought  that  might  have 
been  a  lesson  to  Lady  Susan."  Miss  Pinsent  resumed 
her  knitting  with  a  sigh.  "There  are  exceptions,  of 
course.  She  took  at  once  to  you  and  Mr.  Gannett — it 
was  quite  remarkable,  really.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that 
either — of  course  not!  It  was  perfectly  natural — we 
all  thought  you  so  charming  and  interesting  from  the 
first  day — we  knew  at  once  that  Mr.  Gannett  was  in 
tellectual,  by  the  magazines  you  took  in ;  but  you 
know  what  I  mean.  Lady  Susan  is  so  very — well,  I 
won't  say  prejudiced,  as  Mrs.  Ainger  does — but  so 
[  108] 


SOULS    BELATED 

prepared  not  to  like  new  people,  that  her  taking  to 
you  in  that  way  was  a  surprise  to  us  all,  I  confess." 

Miss  Pinsent  sent  a  significant  glance  down  the  long 
laurustinus  alley  from  the  other  end  of  which  two 
people — a  lady  and  gentleman — were  strolling  to 
ward  them  through  the  smiling  neglect  of  the  garden. 

"  In  this  case,  of  course,  it 's  very  different ;  that 
I  'm  willing  to  admit.  Their  looks  are  against  them ; 
but,  as  Mrs.  Ainger  says,  one  can't  exactly  tell  them 
so." 

"She's  very  handsome,"  Lydia  ventured,  with  her 
eyes  on  the  lady,  who  showed,  under  the  dome  of  a 
vivid  sunshade,  the  hour-glass  figure  and  superlative 
coloring  of  a  Christmas  chromo. 

"That 's  the  worst  of  it.  She  's  too  handsome." 

"Well,  after  all,  she  can't  help  that." 

"  Other  people  manage  to,"  said  Miss  Pinsent  skep 
tically. 

"But  isn't  it  rather  unfair  of  Lady  Susan — con 
sidering  that  nothing  is  known  about  them?" 

"  But,  my  dear,  that 's  the  very  thing  that 's  against 
them.  It 's  infinitely  worse  than  any  actual  knowledge." 

Lydia  mentally  agreed  that,  in  the  case  of  Mrs. 
Linton,  it  possibly  might  be. 

"I  wonder  why  they  came  here?"  she  mused. 

" That 's  against  them  too.  It 's  always  a  bad  sign 
when  loud  people  come  to  a  quiet  place.  And  they  Ve 
[  104  ] 


SOULS     BELATED 

brought    van-loads    of    boxes — her    maid    told    Mrs. 
Ainger's  that  they  meant  to  stop  indefinitely." 

"  And  Lady  Susan  actually  turned  her  back  on  her 
in  the  salon  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  she  said  it  was  for  our  sakes :  that  makes 
it  so  unanswerable !  But  poor  Grossart  is  in  a  way ! 
Thes  Lintons  have  taken  his  most  expensive  suite, 
you  know — the  yellow  damask  drawing-room  above 
the  portico — and  they  have  champagne  with  every 
meal!" 

They  were  silent  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Linton  sauntered 
by ;  the  lady  with  tempestuous  brows  and  challenging 
chin ;  the  gentleman,  a  blond  stripling,  trailing  after 
her,  head  downward,  like  a  reluctant  child  dragged 
by  his  nurse. 

"What  does  your  husband  think  of  them,  my  dear?" 
Miss  Pinsent  whispered  as  they  passed  out  of  earshot. 

Lydia  stooped  to  pick  a  violet  in  the  border. 

"He  hasn't  told  me." 

"Of  your  speaking  to  them,  I  mean.  Would  he 
approve  of  that?  I  know  how  very  particular  nice 
Americans  are.  I  think  your  action  might  make  a 
difference ;  it  would  certainly  carry  weight  with  Lady 
Susan." 

"  Dear  Miss  Pinsent,  you  flatter  me ! " 

Lydia  rose  and  gathered  up  her  book  and  sun 
shade. 

[  105  ] 


SOULS    BELATED 

"Well,  if  you're  asked  for  an  opinion — if  Lady 
Susan  asks  you  for  one — I  think  you  ought  to  be  pre 
pared,"  Miss  Pinsent  admonished  her  as  she  moved 
away. 

Ill 

T  ADY  SUSAN  held  her  own.  She  ignored  the  Lin- 
JLy  tons,  and  her  little  family,  as  Miss  Pinsent  phrased 
it,  followed  suit.  Even  Mrs.  Ainger  agreed  that  it  was 
obligatory.  If  Lady  Susan  owed  it  to  the  others  not 
to  speak  to  the  Lintons,  the  others  clearly  owed  it  to 
Lady  Susan  to  back  her  up.  It  was  generally  found 
expedient,  at  the  Hotel  Bellosguardo,  to  adopt  this 
form  of  reasoning. 

Whatever  effect  this  combined  action  may  have 
had  upon  the  Lintons,  it  did  not  at  least  have  that  of 
driving  them  away.  Monsieur  Grossart,  after  a  few 
days  of  suspense,  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  them 
settle  down  in  his  yellow  damask  premier  with  what 
looked  like  a  permanent  installation  of  palm-trees 
and  silk  sofa-cushions,  and  a  gratifying  continuance 
in  the  consumption  of  champagne.  Mrs.  Linton  trailed 
her  Doucet  draperies  up  and  down  the  garden  with 
the  same  challenging  air,  while  her  husband,  smoking 
innumerable  cigarettes,  dragged  himself  dejectedly  in 
her  wake ;  but  neither  of  them,  after  the  first  encoun 
ter  with  Lady  Susan,  made  any  attempt  to  extend 
[  106  ]  ' 


SOULS     BELATED 

their  acquaintance.  They  simply  ignored  their  ignorers. 
As  Miss  Pinsent  resentfully  observed,  they  behaved 
exactly  as  though  the  hotel  were  empty. 

It  was  therefore  a  matter  of  surprise,  as  well  as  of 
displeasure,  to  Lydia,  to  find,  on  glancing  up  one  day 
from  her  seat  in  the  garden,  that  the  shadow  which 
had  fallen  across  her  book  was  that  of  the  enigmatic 
Mrs.  Linton. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  that  lady  said,  in  a  rich 
hard  voice  that  seemed  the  audible  expression  of  her 
gown  and  her  complexion. 

Lydia  started.  She  certainly  did  not  want  to  speak 
to  Mrs.  Linton. 

"  Shall  I  sit  down  here  ?  "  the  latter  continued,  fixing 
her  intensely-shaded  eyes  on  Lydia's  face,  "  or  are  you 
afraid  of  being  seen  with  me  ?" 

"Afraid?"  Lydia  colored.  "Sit  down,  please.  What 
is  it  that  you  wish  to  say?" 

Mrs.  Linton,  with  a  smile,  drew  up  a  garden-chair 
and  crossed  one  open-work  ankle  above  the  other. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  my  husband  said  to 
your  husband  last  night." 
Lydia  turned  pale. 

"My  husband — to  yours?"  she  faltered,  staring  at 
the  other. 

"Didn't  you  know  they  were  closeted  together  for 
hours  in  the  smoking-room  after  you  went  upstairs? 
[  107  ] 


SOULS     BELATED 

My  man  didn't  get  to  bed  until  nearly  two  o'clock 
and  when  he  did  I  couldn't  get  a  word  out  of  him. 
When  he  wants  to  be  aggravating  I  '11  back  him 
against  anybody  living !  "  Her  teeth  and  eyes  flashed 
persuasively  upon  Lydia.  "But  you'll  tell  me  what 
they  were  talking  about,  won't  you?  I  know  I  can 
trust  you — you  look  so  awfully  kind.  And  it 's  for  his 
own  good.  He 's  such  a  precious  donkey  and  I  'm  so 
afraid  he  's  got  into  some  beastly  scrape  or  other.  If 
he  'd  only  trust  his  own  old  woman !  But  they  're  al 
ways  writing  to  him  and  setting  him  against  me.  And 
I  've  got  nobody  to  turn  to."  She  laid  her  hand  on 
Lydia's  with  a  rattle  of  bracelets.  "  You  '11  help  me, 
won't  you  ?  " 

Lydia  drew  back  from  the  smiling  fierceness  of  her 
brows. 

"I'm  sorry — but  I  don't  think  I  understand.  My 
husband  has  said  nothing  to  me  of — of  yours." 

The  great  black  crescents  above  Mrs.  Linton's  eye? 
met  angrily. 

"I  say — is  that  true?"  she  demanded. 

Lydia  rose  from  her  seat. 

"Oh,  look  here,  I  didn't  mean  that,  you  know — 
you  must  n't  take  one  up  so !  Can't  you  see  how  rat 
tled  I  am?" 

Lydia  saw  that,  in  fact,  her  beautiful  mouth  was 
quivering  beneath  softened  eyes. 
[   108  ] 


SOULS     BELATED 

"I'm  beside  myself!"  the  splendid  creature  wailed, 
dropping  into  her  seat. 

"  I  'm  so  sorry/'  Lydia  repeated,  forcing  herself  to 
speak  kindly  ;  "  but  how  can  I  help  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Linton  raised  her  head  sharply. 

"By  finding  out — there's  a  darling!" 

"Finding  what  out?" 

"What  Trevenna  told  him." 

"Trevenna — ?"  Lydia  echoed  in  bewilderment. 

Mrs.  Linton  clapped  her  hand  to  her  mouth. 

"Oh,  Lord— there,  it's  out!  What  a  fool  I  am! 
But  I  supposed  of  course  you  knew ;  I  supposed  every 
body  knew."  She  dried  her  eyes  and  bridled.  "Didn't 
you  know  that  he  's  Lord  Trevenna  ?  I  'm  Mrs.  Cope." 

Lydia  recognized  the  names.  They  had  figured  in 
a  flamboyant  elopement  which  had  thrilled  fashionable 
London  some  six  months  earlier. 

"Now  you  see  how  it  is — you  understand,  don't 
you  ? "  Mrs.  Cope  continued  on  a  note  of  appeal.  "  I 
knew  you  would — that's  the  reason  I  came  to  you. 
I  suppose  he  felt  the  same  thing  about  your  husband ; 
he's  not  spoken  to  another  soul  in  the  place."  Her 
face  grew  anxious  again.  "  He  's  awfully  sensitive,  gen 
erally — he  feels  our  position,  he  says — as  if  it  wasn't 
my  place  to  feel  that !  But  when  he  does  get  talking 
there  's  no  knowing  what  he  '11  say.  I  know  he 's  been 
brooding  over  something  lately,  and  I  must  find  out 
[  109] 


SOULS     BELATED 

what  it  is — it's  to  his  interest  that  I  should.  I  always 
tell  him  that  I  think  only  of  his  interest ;  if  he  'd  only 
trust  me!  But  he's  been  so  odd  lately — I  can't  think 
what  he's  plotting.  You  will  help  me,  dear?" 

Lydia,  who  had  remained  standing,  looked  away 
uncomfortably. 

"If  you  mean  by  finding  out  what  Lord  Trevenna 
has  told  my  husband,  I  'm  afraid  it 's  impossible." 

"  Why  impossible  ?  " 

"Because  I  infer  that  it  was  told  in  confidence." 

Mrs.  Cope  stared  incredulously. 

"Well,  what  of  that?  Your  husband  looks  such  a 
dear — any  one  can  see  he 's  awfully  gone  on  you. 
What 's  to  prevent  your  getting  it  out  of  him  ?  " 

Lydia  flushed. 

"  I  'm  not  a  spy  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"A  spy — a  spy?  How  dare  you?  "  Mrs.  Cope  flamed 
out.  "Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  either!  Don't  be  angry 
with  me — I'm  so  miserable."  She  essayed  a  softer 
note.  "Do  you  call  that  spying — for  one  woman  to 
help  out  another  ?  I  do  need  help  so  dreadfully !  I  'm 
at  my  wits'  end  with  Trevenna,  I  am  indeed.  He's 
such  a  boy — a  mere  baby,  you  know ;  he  's  only  two- 
and-twenty."  She  dropped  her  orbed  lids.  "  He 's 
younger  than  me — only  fancy  !  a  few  months  younger. 
I  tell  him  he  ought  to  listen  to  me  as  if  I  was  his 
mother ;  ought  n't  he  now  ?  But  he  won't,  he  won't ! 
[  "0] 


SOULS     BELATED 

All  his  people  are  at  him,  you  see — oh,  I  know  their 
little  game !  Trying  to  get  him  away  from  me  before 
I  can  get  my  divorce — that's  what  they're  up  to. 
At  first  he  would  n't  listen  to  them ;  he  used  to  toss 
their  letters  over  to  me  to  read ;  but  now  he  reads 
them  himself,  and  answers  'em  too,  I  fancy ;  he 's  al 
ways  shut  up  in  his  room,  writing.  If  I  only  knew  what 
his  plan  is  I  could  stop  him  fast  enough — he's  such 
a  simpleton.  But  he 's  dreadfully  deep  too — at  times 
I  can't  make  him  out.  But  I  know  he 's  told  your 
husband  everything — I  knew  that  last  night  the 
minute  I  laid  eyes  on  him.  And  I  must  find  out — you 
must  help  me — I've  got  no  one  else  to  turn  to!" 

She  caught  Lydia's  fingers  in  a  stormy  pressure. 

"Say  you'll  help  me — you  and  your  husband." 

Lydia  tried  to  free  herself. 

"  What  you  ask  is  impossible ;  you  must  see  that  it 
is.  No  one  could  interfere  in — in  the  way  you  ask." 

Mrs.  Cope's  clutch  tightened. 

"You  won't,  then?  You  won't?" 

"Certainly  not.  Let  me  go,  please." 

Mrs.  Cope  released  her  with  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  go  by  all  means — pray  don't  let  me  detain 
you!  Shall  you  go  and  tell  Lady  Susan  Condit  that 
there  's  a  pair  of  us — or  shall  I  save  you  the  trouble 
of  enlightening  her?" 

Lydia  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  path,  seeing 

[in] 


SOULS     BELATED 

her  antagonist  through  a  mist  of  terror.  Mrs.  Cope  was 
still  laughing. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  not  spiteful  by  nature,  my  dear ;  but 
you're  a  little  more  than  flesh  and  blood  can  stand! 
It 's  impossible,  is  it  ?  Let  you  go,  indeed !  You  're  too 
good  to  be  mixed  up  in  my  affairs,  are  you  ?  Why,  you 
little  fool,  the  first  day  I  laid  eyes  on  you  I  saw  that 
you  and  I  were  both  in  the  same  box — that's  the 
reason  I  spoke  to  you." 

She  stepped  nearer,  her  smile  dilating  on  Lydia  like 
a  lamp  through  a  fog. 

"You  can  take  your  choice,  you  know;  I  always 
play  fair.  If  you  '11  tell  I  '11  promise  not  to.  Now  then, 
which  is  it  to  be?" 

Lydia,  involuntarily,  had  begun  to  move  away  from 
the  pelting  storm  of  words ;  but  at  this  she  turned  and 
sat  down  again. 

"  You  may  go,"  she  said  simply.  "  I  shall  stay 
here." 

IV 

SHE  stayed  there  for  a  long  time,  in  the  hypnotized 
contemplation,  not  of  Mrs.  Cope's  present,  but  of 
her  own  past.  Gannett,  early  that  morning,  had  gone 
off  on  a  long  walk — he  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of 
taking    these    mountain-tramps   with    various    fellow- 
lodgers  ;   but    even    had    he    been   within    reach   she 
[   "2] 


SOULS     BELATED 

could  not  have  gone  to  him  just  then.  She  had  to 
deal  with  herself  first.  She  was  surprised  to  find 
how,  in  the  last  months,  she  had  lost  the  habit  of 
introspection.  Since  their  coming  to  the  Hotel  Bel- 
losguardo  she  and  Gannett  had  tacitly  avoided  them 
selves  and  each  other. 

She  was  aroused  by  the  whistle  of  the  three  o'clock 
steamboat  as  it  neared  the  landing  just  beyond  the 
hotel  gates.  Three  o'clock !  Then  Gannett  would  soon 
be  back — he  had  told  her  to  expect  him  before  four. 
She  rose  hurriedly,  her  face  averted  from  the  inquisi 
torial  fa9ade  of  the  hotel.  She  could  not  see  him  just 
yet ;  she  could  not  go  indoors.  She  slipped  through  one 
of  the  overgrown  garden-alleys  and  climbed  a  steep 
path  to  the  hills. 

It  was  dark  when  she  opened  their  sitting-room 
door.  Gannett  was  sitting  on  the  window-ledge  smok 
ing  a  cigarette.  Cigarettes  were  now  his  chief  resource : 
he  had  not  written  a  line  during  the  two  months  they 
had  spent  at  the  Hotel  Bellosguardo.  In  that  respect, 
it  had  turned  out  not  to  be  the  right  milieu  after  all. 

He  started  up  at  Lydia's  entrance. 

"Where  have  you  been?  I  was  getting  anxious." 

She  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  the  door. 

"  Up  the  mountain,"  she  said  wearily. 

"Alone?" 

"Yes." 

[  US] 


SOULS     BELATED 

Gannett  threw  away  his  cigarette :  the  sound  of  her 
voice  made  him  want  to  see  her  face. 

"Shall  we  have  a  little  light?"  he  suggested. 

She  made  no  answer  and  he  lifted  the  globe  from 
the  lamp  and  put  a  match  to  the  wick.  Then  he  looked 
at  her. 

"Anything  wrong?  You  look  done  up." 

She  sat  glancing  vaguely  about  the  little  sitting- 
room,  dimly  lit  by  the  pallid-globed  lamp,  which  left 
in  twilight  the  outlines  of  the  furniture,  of  his  writing- 
table  heaped  with  books  and  papers,  of  the  tea-roses 
and  jasmine  drooping  on  the  mantel-piece.  How  like 
home  it  had  all  grown — how  like  home ! 

"Lydia,  what  is  wrong?"  he  repeated. 

She  moved  away  from  him,  feeling  for  her  hat 
pins  and  turning  to  lay  her  hat  and  sunshade  on  the 
table. 

Suddenly  she  said:  "That  woman  has  been  talking 
to  me." 

Gannett  stared. 

"That  woman?  What  woman?" 

"Mrs.  Linton— Mrs.  Cope." 

He  gave  a  start  of  annoyance,  still,  as  she  perceived, 
not  grasping  the  full  import  of  her  words. 

"The  deuce!  She  told  you—?" 

"She  told  me  everything." 

Gannett  looked  at  her  anxiously. 


SOULS     BELATED 

"What  impudence!  I'm  so  sorry  that  you  should 
have  been  exposed  to  this,  dear." 

"  Exposed  !  "  Lydia  laughed. 

Gannett 's  brow  clouded  and  they  looked  away  from 
each  other. 

"  Do  you  know  why  she  told  me  ?  She  had  the  best 
of  reasons.  The  first  time  she  laid  eyes  on  me  she  saw 
that  we  were  both  in  the  same  box." 

«  Lydia ! " 

"  So  it  was  natural,  of  course,  that  she  should  turn 
to  me  in  a  difficulty." 

"What  difficulty?" 

"It  seems  she  has  reason  to  think  that  Lord  Tre- 
venna's  people  are  trying  to  get  him  away  from  her 
before  she  gets  her  divorce — " 

"Well?" 

"  And  she  fancied  he  had  been  consulting  with  you 
last  night  as  to — as  to  the  best  way  of  escaping  from 
her." 

Gannett  stood  up  with  an  angry  forehead. 

"Well — what  concern  of  yours  was  all  this  dirty 
business  ?  Why  should  she  go  to  you  ? " 

"Don't  you  see?  It's  so  simple.  I  was  to  wheedle 
his  secret  out  of  you." 

"To  oblige  that  woman?" 

"  Yes ;  or,  if  I  was  unwilling  to  oblige  her,  then  to 
protect  myself." 

[115] 


SOULS     BELATED 

"To  protect  yourself?  Against  whom?" 

"  Against  her  telling  every  one  in  the  hotel  that  she 
and  I  are  in  the  same  box." 

"She  threatened  that?" 

"She  left  me  the  choice  of  telling  it  myself  or  of 
doing  it  for  me." 

"The  beast!" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Lydia  had  seated  herself 
on  the  sofa,  beyond  the  radius  of  the  lamp,  and  he 
leaned  against  the  window.  His  next  question  sur 
prised  her. 

"When  did  this  happen?  At  what  time,  I  mean?" 

She  looked  at  him  vaguely. 

"  I  don't  know — after  luncheon,  I  think.  Yes,  I 
remember ;  it  must  have  been  at  about  three  o'clock." 

He  stepped  into  the  middle  of  the  room  and  as 
he  approached  the  light  she  saw  that  his  brow  had 
cleared. 

"Why  do  you  ask?"  she  said. 

"Because  when  I  came  in,  at  about  half-past  three, 
the  mail  was  just  being  distributed,  and  Mrs.  Cope 
was  waiting  as  usual  to  pounce  on  her  letters ;  you 
know  she  was  always  watching  for  the  postman.  She 
was  standing  so  close  to  me  that  I  could  n't  help  see 
ing  a  big  official-looking  envelope  that  was  handed 
to  her.  She  tore  it  open,  gave  one  look  at  the  inside, 
and  rushed  off  upstairs  like  a  whirlwind,  with  the  di- 


SOULS     BELATED 

rector  shouting  after  her  that  she  had  left  all  her  other 
letters  behind.  I  don't  believe  she  ever  thought  of  you 
again  after  that  paper  was  put  into  her  hand." 

"Why?" 

"Because  she  was  too  busy.  I  was  sitting  in  the 
window,  watching  for  you,  when  the  five  o'clock  boat 
left,  and  who  should  go  on  board,  bag  and  baggage, 
valet  and  maid,  dressing-bags  and  poodle,  but  Mrs. 
Cope  and  Trevenna.  Just  an  hour  and  a  half  to  pack 
up  in!  And  you  should  have  seen  her  when  they 
started.  She  was  radiant — shaking  hands  with  every 
body — waving  her  handkerchief  from  the  deck — dis 
tributing  bows  and  smiles  like* an  empress.  If  ever  a 
woman  got  what  she  wanted  just  in  the  nick  of  time 
that  woman  did.  She  '11  be  Lady  Trevenna  within  a 
week,  I  '11  wager." 

"You  think  she  has  her  divorce?" 

"  I  'm  sure  of  it.  And  she  must  have  got  it  just  after 
her  talk  with  you." 

Lydia  was  silent. 

At  length  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  reluctance,  "  She 
was  horribly  angry  when  she  left  me.  It  would  n't  have 
taken  long  to  tell  Lady  Susan  Condit." 

"Lady  Susan  Condit  has  not  been  told." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"  Because  when  I  went  downstairs  half  an  hour  ago 
I  met  Lady  Susan  on  the  way — " 
[117] 


SOULS    BELATED 

He  stopped,  half  smiling. 

"Well?" 

"And  she  stopped  to  ask  if  I  thought  you  would 
act  as  patroness  to  a  charity  concert  she  is  getting  up." 

In  spite  of  themselves  they  both  broke  into  a  laugh. 
Lydia's  ended  in  sobs  and  she  sank  down  with  her 
face  hidden.  Gannett  bent  over  her,  seeking  her 
hands. 

"That  vile  woman — I  ought  to  have  warned  you 
to  keep  away  from  her ;  I  can't  forgive  myself !  But  he 
spoke  to  me  in  confidence ;  and  I  never  dreamed — 
well,  it's  all  over  now." 

Lydia  lifted  her  head. 

"Not  for  me.  It's  only  just  beginning." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

She  put  him  gently  aside  and  moved  in  her  turn  to 
the  window.  Then  she  went  on,  with  her  face  turned 
toward  the  shimmering  blackness  of  the  lake,  "  You  see 
of  course  that  it  might  happen  again  at  any  moment." 

"What?" 

"This — this  risk  of  being  found  out.  And  we  could 
hardly  count  again  on  such  a  lucky  combination  of 
chances,  could  we?" 

He  sat  down  with  a  groan. 

Still  keeping  her  face  toward  the  darkness,  she 
said,  "I  want  you  to  go  and  tell  Lady  Susan — and 
the  others." 

[118] 


SOULS     BELATED 

Gannett,  who  had  moved  towards  her,  paused  a  few 
feet  off. 

"  Why  do  you  wish  me  to  do  this  ?  "  he  said  at 
length,  with  less  surprise  in  his  voice  than  she  had 
been  prepared  for. 

"  Because  I  've  behaved  basely,  abominably,  since 
we  came  here :  letting  these  people  believe  we  were 
married — lying  with  every  breath  I  drew— 

"  Yes,  I  've  felt  that  too,"  Gannett  exclaimed  with 
sudden  energy. 

The  words  shook  her  like  a  tempest :  all  her  thoughts 
seemed  to  fall  about  her  in  ruins. 

"  You — you 've  felt  so  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  have."  He  spoke  with  low- voiced 
vehemence.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  like  playing  the  sneak 
any  better  than  you  do?  It's  damnable." 

He  had  dropped  on  the  arm  of  a  chair,  and  they 
stared  at  each  other  like  blind  people  who  suddenly 
see. 

ft  But  you  have  liked  it  here,"  she  faltered. 

"Oh,  I've  liked  it— I've  liked  it."  He  moved  im 
patiently.  "  Have  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  burst  out ;  "  that 's  the  worst  of  it — 
that 's  what  I  can't  bear.  I  fancied  it  was  for  your 
sake  that  I  insisted  on  staying — because  you  thought 
you  could  write  here ;  and  perhaps  just  at  first  that 
really  was  the  reason.  But  afterwards  I  wanted  to 

["9] 


SOULS     BELATED 

stay  myself — I  loved  it."  She  broke  into  a  laugh. 
"Oh,  do  you  see  the  full  derision  of  it?  These  peo 
ple — the  very  prototypes  of  the  bores  you  took  me 
away  from,  with  the  same  fenced-in  view  of  life,  the 
same  keep-off-the-grass  morality,  the  same  little  cau 
tious  virtues  and  the  same  little  frightened  vices — 
well,  I  've  clung  to  them,  I  've  delighted  in  them, 
I  've  done  my  best  to  please  them.  I  've  toadied  Lady 
Susan,  I've  gossipped  with  Miss  Pinsent,  I've  pre 
tended  to  be  shocked  with  Mrs.  Ainger.  Respecta 
bility  !  It  was  the  one  thing  in  life  that  I  was  sure  I 
didn't  care  about,  and  it's  grown  so  precious  to  me 
that  I've  stolen  it  because  I  couldn't  get  it  in  any 
other  way." 

She  moved  across  the  room  and  returned  to  his  side 
with  another  laugh. 

"  I  who  used  to  fancy  myself  unconventional !  I  must 
have  been  born  with  a  card-case  in  my  hand.  You 
should  have  seen  me  with  that  poor  woman  in  the 
garden.  She  came  to  me  for  help,  poor  creature,  be 
cause  she  fancied  that,  having  '  sinned,'  as  they  call 
it,  I  might  feel  some  pity  for  others  who  had  been 
tempted  in  the  same  way.  Not  I !  She  did  n't  know 
me.  Lady  Susan  would  have  been  kinder,  because 
Lady  Susan  wouldn't  have  been  afraid.  I  hated  the 
woman — my  one  thought  was  not  to  be  seen  with 
her — I  could  have  killed  her  for  guessing  my  secret. 
[  120  ] 


SOULS     BELATED 

The  one  thing  that  mattered  to  me  at  that  moment 
was  my  standing  with  Lady  Susan !  " 

Gannett  did  not  speak. 

"And  you — you've  felt  it  too!"  she  broke  out 
accusingly.  " You've  enjoyed  being  with  these  peo 
ple  as  much  as  I  have ;  you  've  let  the  chaplain  talk 
to  you  by  the  hour  about  'The  Reign  of  Law'  and 
Professor  Drummond.  When  they  asked  you  to  hand 
the  plate  in  church  I  was  watching  you — you  wanted 
to  accept" 

She  stepped  close,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  begin  to  see  what  marriage  is 
for.  It's  to  keep  people  away  from  each  other.  Some 
times  I  think  that  two  people  who  love  each  other 
can  be  saved  from  madness  only  by  the  things  that 
come  between  them — children,  duties,  visits,  bores,  re 
lations—the  things  that  protect  married  people  from 
each  other.  We've  been  too  close  together — that  has 
been  our  sin.  We  've  seen  the  nakedness  of  each 
other's  souls." 

She  sank  again  on  the  sofa,  hiding  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

Gannett  stood  above  her  perplexedly :  he  felt  as 
though  she  were  being  swept  away  by  some  implaca 
ble  current  while  he  stood  helpless  on  its  bank. 

At  length  he  said,  "Lydia,  don't  think  me  a  brute 
— but  don't  you  see  yourself  that  it  won't  do  ?  " 
[121] 


SOULS     BELATED 

"Yes,  I  see  it  won't  do,"  she  said  without  raising 
her  head. 

His  face  cleared. 

"  Then  we  '11  go  to-morrow." 

"  Go — where  ?  " 

"  To  Paris  ;  to  be  married." 

For  a  long  time  she  made  no  answer;  then  she 
asked  slowly,  "Would  they  have  us  here  if  we  were 
married  ?  " 

"  Have  us  here  ?  " 

"  I  mean  Lady  Susan — and  the  others." 

"  Have  us  here  ?  Of  course  they  would." 

"Not  if  they  knew — at  least,  not  unless  they  could 
pretend  not  to  know." 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"We  shouldn't  come  back  here,  of  course;  and 
other  people  needn't  know — no  one  need  know." 

She  sighed.  "Then  it's  only  another  form  of  de 
ception  and  a  meaner  one.  Don't  you  see  that  ?  " 

"  I  see  that  we  're  not  accountable  to  any  Lady 
Susans  on  earth  !  " 

"  Then  why  are  you  ashamed  of  what  we  are  doing 
here  ?  " 

"  Because    I  'm   sick  of  pretending  that  you  're  my 
wife  when  you  're  not — when  you  won't  be." 
She  looked  at  him  sadly. 

"  If  I  were  your  wife  you  'd  have  to  go  on  pretend- 
[  122  ] 


SOULS     BELATED 

ing.  You  'd  have  to  pretend  that  I  'd  never  been — 
anything  else.  And  our  friends  would  have  to  pretend 
that  they  believed  what  you  pretended." 

Gannett  pulled  off  the  sofa-tassel  and  flung  it  away. 

"You  're  impossible/'  he  groaned. 

"  It 's  not  I — it 's  our  being  together  that 's  impossi 
ble.  I  only  want  you  to  see  that  marriage  won't  help  it." 

"  What  will  help  it  then  ?  " 

She  raised  her  head. 

"  My  leaving  you." 

"Your  leaving  me?"  He  sat  motionless,  staring  at 
the  tassel  which  lay  at  the  other  end  of  the  room.  At 
length  some  impulse  of  retaliation  for  the  pain  she  was 
inflicting  made  him  say  deliberately  : 

"  And  where  would  you  go  if  you  left  me  ?  " 

"  Oh !  "  she  cried. 

He  was  at  her  side  in  an  instant. 

"Lydia — Lydia — you  know  I  didn't  mean  it;  I 
couldn't  mean  it!  But  you've  driven  me  out  of  my 
senses;  I  don't  know  what  I'm  saying.  Can't  you  get  out 
of  this  labyrinth  of  self-torture?  It 's  destroying  us  both." 

"That's  why  I  must  leave  you." 

"  How  easily  you  say  it !  "  He  drew  her  hands  down 
and  made  her  face  him.  "  You  're  very  scrupulous  about 
yourself — and  others.  But  have  you  thought  of  me? 
You  have  no  right  to  leave  me  unless  you've  ceased 
to  care — " 

[  123] 


SOULS     BELATED 

"It's  because  I  care — " 

"  Then  I  have  a  right  to  be  heard.  If  you  love  me 
you  can't  leave  me." 

Her  eyes  defied  him. 

"Why  not?" 

He  dropped  her  hands  and  rose  from  her  side. 

"  Can  you  ?  "  he  said  sadly. 

The  hour  was  late  and  the  lamp  nickered  and  sank. 
She  stood  up  with  a  shiver  and  turned  toward  the 
door  of  her  room. 


AT  daylight  a  sound  in  Lydia's  room  woke  Gannett 
from  a  troubled  sleep.  He  sat  up  and  listened. 
She  was  moving  about  softly,  as  though  fearful  of 
disturbing  him.  He  heard  her  push  back  one  of  the 
creaking  shutters ;  then  there  was  a  moment's  silence, 
which  seemed  to  indicate  that  she  was  waiting  to  see 
if  the  noise  had  roused  him. 

Presently  she  began  to  move  again.  She  had  spent 
a  sleepless  night,  probably,  and  was  dressing  to  go 
down  to  the  garden  for  a  breath  of  air.  Gannett  rose 
also ;  but  some  undefinable  instinct  made  his  move 
ments  as  cautious  as  hers.  He  stole  to  his  window  and 
looked  out  through  the  slats  of  the  shutter. 

It  had  rained  in  the  night  and  the  dawn  was  gray 
and  lifeless.  The  cloud-muffled  hills  across  the  lake 
[  121  ] 


SOULS     BELATED 

were  reflected  in  its  surface  as  in  a  tarnished  mirror. 
In  the  garden,  the  birds  were  beginning  to  shake  the 
drops  from  the  motionless  laurustinus-boughs. 

An  immense  pity  for  Lydia  filled  Gannett' s  soul. 
Her  seeming  intellectual  independence  had  blinded 
him  for  a  time  to  the  feminine  cast  of  her  mind.  He 
had  never  thought  of  her  as  a  woman  who  wept  and 
clung:  there  was  a  lucidity  in  her  intuitions  that 
made  them  appear  to  be  the  result  of  reasoning.  Now 
he  saw  the  cruelty  he  had  committed  in  detaching 
her  from  the  normal  conditions  of  life;  he  felt,  too, 
the  insight  with  which  she  had  hit  upon  the  real 
cause  of  their  suffering.  Their  life  was  "impossible," 
as  she  had  said — and  its  worst  penalty  was  that  it 
had  made  any  other  life  impossible  for  them.  Even 
had  his  love  lessened,  he  was  bound  to  her  now  by  a 
hundred  ties  of  pity  and  self-reproach ;  and  she,  poor 
child !  must  turn  back  to  him  as  Latude  returned  to 
his  cell  .  .  . 

A  new  sound  startled  him :  it  was  the  stealthy  clos 
ing  of  Lydia's  door.  He  crept  to  his  own  and  heard 
her  footsteps  passing  down  the  corridor.  Then  he  went 
back  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

A  minute  or  two  later  he  saw  her  go  down  the  steps 

of  the  porch  and  enter  the  garden.  From  his  post  of 

observation    her    face   was    invisible,    but    something 

about  her  appearance   struck   him.   She  wore  a  long 

[135] 


SOULS    BELATED 

travelling  cloak  and  under  its  folds  he  detected  the 
outline  of  a  bag  or  bundle.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  and 
stood  watching  her. 

She  walked  quickly  down  the  laurustinus  alley  to 
ward  the  gate ;  there  she  paused  a  moment,,  glancing 
about  the  little  shady  square.  The  stone  benches  under 
the  trees  were  empty,  and  she  seemed  to  gather  reso 
lution  from  the  solitude  about  her,  for  she  crossed 
the  square  to  the  steam-boat  landing,  and  he  saw  her 
pause  before  the  ticket-office  at  the  head  of  the  wharf. 
Now  she  was  buying  her  ticket.  Gannett  turned  his 
head  a  moment  to  look  at  the  clock :  the  boat  was 
due  in  five  minutes.  He  had  time  to  jump  into  his 
clothes  and  overtake  her — 

He  made  no  attempt  to  move;  an  obscure  reluc 
tance  restrained  him.  If  any  thought  emerged  from 
the  tumult  of  his  sensations,  it  was  that  he  must  let 
her  go  if  she  wished  it.  He  had  spoken  last  night  of 
his  rights :  what  were  they  ?  At  the  last  issue,  he  and 
she  were  two  separate  beings,  not  made  one  by  the 
miracle  of  common  forbearances,  duties,  abnegations, 
but  bound  together  in  a  noyade  of  passion  that  left 
them  resisting  yet  clinging  as  they  went  down. 

•  After  buying  her  ticket,  Lydia  had  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  looking  out  across  the  lake ;  then  he  saw  her 
seat  herself  on  one  of  the  benches  near  the  landing. 
He  and  she,  at  that  moment,  were  both  listening  for 
[  126] 


SOULS    BELATED 

the  same  sound :  the  whistle  of  the  boat  as  it  rounded 
the  nearest  promontory.  Gannett  turned  again  to 
glance  at  the  clock:  the  boat  was  due  now. 

Where  would  she  go  ?  What  would  her  life  be  when 
she  had  left  him  ?  She  had  no  near  relations  and  few 
friends.  There  was  money  enough  .  .  .  but  she  asked 
so  much  of  life,  in  ways  so  complex  and  immaterial. 
He  thought  of  her  as  walking  bare-footed  through  a 
stony  waste.  No  one  would  understand  her — no  one 
would  pity  her — and  he,  who  did  both,  was  powerless 
to  come  to  her  aid  ... 

He  saw  that  she  had  risen  from  the  bench  and 
walked  toward  the  edge  of  the  lake.  She  stood  look 
ing  in  the  direction  from  which  the  steamboat  was 
to  come ;  then  she  turned  to  the  ticket-office,  doubt 
less  to  ask  the  cause  of  the  delay.  After  that  she  went 
back  to  the  bench  and  sat  down  with  bent  head. 
What  was  she  thinking  of? 

The  whistle  sounded;  she  started  up,  and  Gannett 
involuntarily  made  a  movement  toward  the  door.  But 
he  turned  back  and  continued  to  watch  her.  She  stood 
motionless,  her  eyes  on  the  trail  of  smoke  that  pre 
ceded  the  appearance  of  the  boat.  Then  the  little 
craft  rounded  the  point,  a  dead-white  object  on  the 
leaden  water :  a  minute  later  it  was  puffing  and 
backing  at  the  wharf. 

The  few  passengers  who  were  waiting — two  or 
[  127] 


SOULS    BELATED 

three  peasants  and  a  snuffy  priest — were  clustered 
near  the  ticket-office.  Lydia  stood  apart  under  the 
trees. 

The  boat  lay  alongside  now;  the  gang-plank  was 
run  out  and  the  peasants  went  on  board  with  their 
baskets  of  vegetables,  followed  by  the  priest.  Still 
Lydia  did  not  move.  A  bell  began  to  ring  querulously ; 
there  was  a  shriek  of  steam,  and  some  one  must  have 
called  to  her  that  she  would  be  late,  for  she  started 
forward,  as  though  in  answer  to  a  summons.  She  moved 
waveringly,  and  at  the  edge  of  the  wharf  she  paused. 
Gannett  saw  a  sailor  beckon  to  her;  the  bell  rang 
again  and  she  stepped  upon  the  gang-plank. 

Half-way  down  the  short  incline  to  the  deck  she 
stopped  again;  then  she  turned  and  ran  back  to  the 
land.  The  gang-plank  was  drawn  in,  the  bell  ceased 
to  ring,  and  the  boat  backed  out  into  the  lake.  Lydia, 
with  slow  steps,  was  walking  toward  the  garden  .  .  . 

As  she  approached  the  hotel  she  looked  up  furtively 
and  Gannett  drew  back  into  the  room.  He  sat  down 
beside  a  table ;  a  Bradshaw  lay  at  his  elbow,  and  me 
chanically,  without  knowing  what  he  did,  he  began 
looking  out  the  trains  to  Paris  .  .  . 


[  128  J 


A    COWARD 


A    COWARD 

"  "m  If  Y  daughter  Irene/'  said  Mrs.  Carstyle  (she 
I  ^L  / 1  made  it  rhyme  with  tureen),  "has  had  no 

-^  *  -A-  social  advantages  ;  but  if  Mr.  Carstyle  had 
chosen — "  she  paused  significantly  and  looked  at  the 
shabby  sofa  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire-place  as 
though  it  had  been  Mr.  Carstyle.  Vibart  was  glad  that 
it  was  not. 

Mrs.  Carstyle  was  one  of  the  women  who  make  re 
finement  vulgar.  She  invariably  spoke  of  her  husband 
as  Mr.  Carstyle  and,  though  she  had  but  one  daughter, 
was  always  careful  to  designate  the  young  lady  by 
name.  At  luncheon  she  had  talked  a  great  deal  of 
elevating  influences  and  ideals,  and  had  fluctuated  be 
tween  apologies  for  the  overdone  mutton  and  affected 
surprise  that  the  bewildered  maid-servant  should  have 
forgotten  to  serve  the  coffee  and  liqueurs  as  usual. 

Vibart  was  almost  sorry  that  he  had  come.  Miss  Car- 
style  was  still  beautiful — almost  as  beautiful  as  when, 
two  days  earlier,  against  the  leafy  background  of  a 
June  garden-party,  he  had  seen  her  for  the  first  time 
— but  her  mother's  expositions  and  elucidations  cheap 
ened  her  beauty  as  sign-posts  vulgarize  a  woodland 
solitude.  Mrs.  Carstyle' s  eye  was  perpetually  plying 
between  her  daughter  and  Vibart,  like  an  empty  cab 
[131} 


A    COWARD 

in  quest  of  a  fare.  Miss  Carstyle,  the  young  man  de 
cided,  was  the  kind  of  girl  whose  surroundings  rub  off 
on  her;  or  was  it  rather  that  Mrs.  Carstyle's  idiosyn 
crasies  were  of  a  nature  to  color  every  one  within 
reach  ?  Vibart,  looking  across  the  table  as  this  consola 
tory  alternative  occurred  to  him,  was  sure  that  they 
had  not  colored  Mr.  Carstyle ;  but  that,  perhaps,  was 
only  because  they  had  bleached  him  instead.  Mr.  Car- 
style  was  quite  colorless ;  it  would  have  been  impossi 
ble  to  guess  his  native  tint.  His  wife's  qualities,  if  they 
had  affected  him  at  all,  had  acted  negatively.  He  did 
not  apologize  for  the  mutton,  and  he  wandered  off 
after  luncheon  without  pretending  to  wait  for  the 
diurnal  coffee  and  liqueurs ;  while  the  few  remarks 
that  he  had  contributed  to  the  conversation  during 
the  meal  had  not  been  in  the  direction  of  abstract 
conceptions  of  life.  As  he  strayed  away,  with  his  vague 
oblique  step,  and  the  stoop  that  suggested  the  habit 
of  dodging  missiles,  Vibart,  who  was  still  in  the  age 
of  formulas,  found  himself  wondering  what  life  could 
be  worth  to  a  man  who  had  evidently  resigned  himself 
to  travelling  with  his  back  to  the  wind ;  so  that  Mrs. 
Carstyle's  allusion  to  her  daughter's  lack  of  advan 
tages  (imparted  while  Irene  searched  the  house  for 
an  undiscoverable  cigarette)  had  an  appositeness  un 
intended  by  the  speaker. 

"  If  Mr.  Carstyle  had  chosen,"  that  lady  repeated, 
[  132  ] 


A     COWARD 

"we  might  have  had  our  city  home"  (she  never  used 
so  small  a  word  as  town)  "  and  Ireen  could  have  mixed 
in  the  society  to  which  I  myself  was  accustomed  at 
her  age."  Her  sigh  pointed  unmistakably  to  a  past 
when  young  men  had  come  to  luncheon  to  see  her. 

The  sigh  led  Vibart  to  look  at  her,  and  the  look  led 
him  to  the  unwelcome  conclusion  that  Irene  "took 
after "  her  mother.  It  was  certainly  not  from  the  sap 
less  paternal  stock  that  the  girl  had  drawn  her  warm 
bloom :  Mrs.  Carstyle  had  contributed  the  high  lights 
to  the  picture. 

Mrs.  Carstyle  caught  his  look  and  appropriated  it 
with  the  complacency  of  a  vicarious  beauty.  She  was 
quite  aware  of  the  value  of  her  appearance  as  guaran 
teeing  Irene's  development  into  a  fine  woman. 

"  But  perhaps,"  she  continued,  taking  up  the  thread 
of  her  explanation,  "you  have  heard  of  Mr.  Carstyle's 
extraordinary  hallucination.  Mr.  Carstyle  knows  that  I 
call  it  so — as  I  tell  him,  it  is  the  most  charitable  view 
to  take." 

She  looked  coldly  at  the  threadbare  sofa  and  indul 
gently  at  the  young  man  who  filled  a  corner  of  it. 

"  You  may  think  it  odd,  Mr.  Vibart,  that  I  should 
take  you  into  my  confidence  in  this  way  after  so  short 
an  acquaintance,  but  somehow  I  can't  help  regarding 
you  as  a  friend  already.  I  believe  in  those  intuitive 
sympathies,  don't  you  ?  They  have  never  misled  me — 


A     COWARD 

her  lids  drooped  retrospectively — "and  besides,  I  al 
ways  tell  Mr.  Carstyle  that  on  this  point  I  will  have 
no  false  pretences.  Where  truth  is  concerned  I  am  in 
exorable,  and  I  consider  it  my  duty  to  let  our  friends 
know  that  our  restricted  way  of  living  is  due  entirely 
to  choice — to  Mr.  Carstyle's  choice.  When  I  married 
Mr.  Carstyle  it  was  with  the  expectation  of  living  in 
New  York  and  of  keeping  my  carriage ;  and  there  is 
no  reason  for  our  not  doing  so — there  is  no  reason, 
Mr.  Vibart,  why  my  daughter  Ireen  should  have  been 
denied  the  intellectual  advantages  of  foreign  travel.  I 
wish  that  to  be  understood.  It  is  owing  to  her  father's 
deliberate  choice  that  Ireen  and  I  have  been  impris 
oned  in  the  narrow  limits  of  Millbrook  society.  For 
myself  I  do  not  complain.  If  Mr.  Carstyle  chooses  to 
place  others  before  his  wife  it  is  not  for  his  wife  to 
repine.  His  course  may  be  noble — Quixotic;  I  do  not 
allow  myself  to  pronounce  judgment  on  it,  though  oth 
ers  have  thought  that  in  sacrificing  his  own  family  to 
strangers  he  was  violating  the  most  sacred  obligations 
of  domestic  life.  This  is  the  opinion  of  my  pastor  and 
of  other  valued  friends ;  but,  as  I  have  always  told 
them,  for  myself  I  make  no  claims.  Where  my  daugh 
ter  Ireen  is  concerned  it  is  different — 

It  was  a  relief  to  Vibart  when,  at  this  point,  Mrs. 
Carstyle's  discharge  of  her  duty  was  cut  short  by  her 
daughter's   reappearance.    Irene   had   been   unable   to 
[184] 


A     COWARD 

find  a  cigarette  for  Mr.  Vibart,  and  her  mother,  with 
beaming  irrelevance,  suggested  that  in  that  case  she 
had  better  show  him  the  garden. 

The  Carstyle  house  stood  but  a  few  yards  back  from 
the  brick-paved  Millbrook  street,  and  the  garden 
was  a  very  small  place,  unless  measured,  as  Mrs.  Car- 
style  probably  intended  that  it  should  be,  by  the  extent 
of  her  daughter's  charms.  These  were  so  considerable 
that  Vibart  walked  back  and  forward  half  a  dozen 
times  between  the  porch  and  the  gate,  before  he 
discovered  the  limitations  of  the  Carstyle  domain.  It 
was  not  till  Irene  had  accused  him  of  being  sarcastic 
and  had  confided  in  him  that  "  the  girls  "  were  furious 
with  her  for  letting  him  talk  to  her  so  long  at  his 
aunt's  garden-party,  that  he  awoke  to  the  exiguity 
of  his  surroundings ;  and  then  it  was  with  a  touch  of 
irritation  that  he  noticed  Mr.  Carstyle's  inconspicuous 
profile  bent  above  a  newspaper  in  one  of  the  lower 
windows.  Vibart  had  an  idea  that  Mr.  Carstyle,  while 
ostensibly  reading  the  paper,  had  kept  count  of  the 
number  of  times  that  his  daughter  had  led  her  com 
panion  up  and  down  between  the  syringa-bushes ;  and 
for  some  undefinable  reason  he  resented  Mr.  Carstyle's 
unperturbed  observation  more  than  his  wife's  zealous 
self-effacement.  To  a  man  who  is  trying  to  please  a 
pretty  girl  there  are  moments  when  the  proximity  of 
an  impartial  spectator  is  more  disconcerting  than  the 
[  135] 


A     COWARD 

most  obvious  connivance ;  and  something  about  Mr. 
Carstyle's  expression  conveyed  his  good-humored  in 
difference  to  Irene's  processes. 

When  the  garden-gate  closed  behind  Vibart  he 
had  become  aware  that  his  preoccupation  with  the 
Carstyles  had  shifted  its  centre  from  the  daughter  to 
the  father;  but  he  was  accustomed  to  such  emotional 
surprises,  and  skilled  in  seizing  any  compensations 
they  might  offer. 

II 

THE  Carstyles  belonged  to  the  all-the-year-round 
Millbrook  of  paper-mills,  cable-cars,  brick  pave 
ments  and  church  sociables,  while  Mrs.  Vance,  the 
aunt  with  whom  Vibart  lived,  was  an  ornament  of  the 
summer  colony  whose  big  country-houses  dotted  the 
surrounding  hills.  Mrs.  Vance  had,  however,  no  diffi 
culty  in  appeasing  the  curiosity  which  Mrs.  Carstyle's 
enigmatic  utterances  had  aroused  in  the  young  man. 
Mrs.  Carstyle's  relentless  veracity  vented  itself  mainly 
on  the  "  summer  people,"  as  they  were  called :  she 
did  not  propose  that  any  one  within  ten  miles  of  Mill- 
brook  should  keep  a  carriage  without  knowing  that 
she  was  entitled  to  keep  one  too.  Mrs.  Vance  remarked 
with  a  sigh  that  Mrs.  Carstyle's  annual  demand  to 
have  her  position  understood  came  in  as  punctually  as 
the  taxes  and  the  water-rates. 
[  136] 


A    COWARD 

"  My  dear,  it 's  simply  this :  when  Andrew  Carstyle 
married  her  years  ago — Heaven  knows  why  he  did; 
he  's  one  of  the  Albany  Carstyles,  you  know,  and  she 
was  a  daughter  of  old  Deacon  Ash  of  South  Millbrook 
—well,  when  he  married  her  he  had  a  tidy  little  in 
come,  and  I  suppose  the  bride  expected  to  set  up 
an  establishment  in  New  York  and  be  hand-in-glove 
with  the  whole  Carstyle  clan.  But  whether  he  was 
ashamed  of  her  from  the  first,  or  for  some  other  un 
explained  reason,  he  bought  a  country-place  and  set 
tled  down  here  for  life.  For  a  few  years  they  lived 
comfortably  enough,  and  she  had  plenty  of  smart 
clothes,  and  drove  about  in  a  victoria  calling  on  the 
summer  people.  Then,  when  the  beautiful  Irene  was 
about  ten  years  old,  Mr.  Carstyle' s  only  brother  died, 
and  it  turned  out  that  he  had  made  away  with  a  lot 
of  trust-property.  It  was  a  horrid  business :  over  three 
hundred  thousand  dollars  were  gone,  and  of  course 
most  of  it  had  belonged  to  widows  and  orphans.  As 
soon  as  the  facts  were  made  known,  Andrew  Carstyle 
announced  that  he  would  pay  back  what  his  brother 
had  stolen.  He  sold  his  country-place  and  his  wife's 
carriage,  and  they  moved  to  the  little  house  they  live 
in  now.  Mr.  Carstyle' s  income  is  probably  not  as  large 
as  his  wife  would  like  to  have  it  thought,  and  though 
I  'm  told  he  puts  aside  a  good  part  of  it  every  year  to 
pay  off  his  brother's  obligations,  I  fancy  the  debt  won't 
[  137] 


A     COWARD 

be  discharged  for  some  time  to  come.  To  help  things 
along  he  opened  a  law  office — he  had  studied  law  in 
his  youth — but  though  he  is  said  to  be  clever  I  hear 
that  he  has  very  little  to  do.  People  are  afraid  of  him : 
he  's  too  dry  and  quiet.  Nobody  believes  in  a  man  who 
doesn't  believe  in  himself,  and  Mr.  Carstyle  always 
seems  to  be  winking  at  you  through  a  slit  in  his 
professional  manner.  People  don't  like  it — his  wife 
doesn't  like  it.  I  believe  she  would  have  accepted  the 
sacrifice  of  the  country-place  and  the  carriage  if  he 
had  struck  an  attitude  and  talked  about  doing  his 
duty.  It  was  his  regarding  the  whole  thing  as  a  matter 
of  course  that  exasperated  her.  What  is  the  use  of 
doing  something  difficult  in  a  way  that  makes  it  look 
perfectly  easy  ?  I  feel  sorry  for  Mrs.  Carstyle.  She 's 
lost  her  house  and  her  carriage,  and  she  hasn't  been 
allowed  to  be  heroic." 

Vibart  had  listened  attentively. 

"  I  wonderwhat  Miss  Carstyle  thinks  of  it  ?"  he  mused. 

Mrs.  Vance  looked  at  him  with  a  tentative  smile.  "  I 
wonder  what  you  think  of  Miss  Carstyle  ?  "  she  returned, 

His  answer  reassured  her. 

"  I  think  she  takes  after  her  mother/'  he  said. 

"Ah,"  cried  his  aunt  cheerfully,  "then  I  needn't 
write  to  your  mother,  and  I  can  have  Irene  at  all  my 
parties !" 

Miss  Carstyle  was  an  important  factor  in  the  re- 
[  138] 


A     COWARD 

stricted  social  combinations  of  a  Millbrook  hostess.  A 
local  beauty  is  always  a  useful  addition  to  a  Saturday- 
to-Monday  house-party,  and  the  beautiful  Irene  was 
served  up  as  a  perennial  novelty  to  the  jaded  guests 
of  the  summer  colony.  As  Vibart's  aunt  remarked,  she 
was  perfect  till  she  became  playful,  and  she  never 
became  playful  till  the  third  day. 

Under  these  conditions,  it  was  natural  that  Vibart 
should  see  a  good  deal  of  the  young  lady,  and  before 
he  was  aware  of  it  he  had  drifted  into  the  anomalous 
position  of  paying  court  to  the  daughter  in  order  to 
ingratiate  himself  with  the  father.  Miss  Carstyle  was 
beautiful,  Vibart  was  young,  and  the  days  were  long 
in  his  aunt's  spacious  and  distinguished  house ;  but  it 
was  really  the  desire  to  know  something  more  of  Mr. 
Carstyle  that  led  the  young  man  to  partake  so  often 
of  that  gentleman's  overdone  mutton.  Vibart's  imagi 
nation  had  been  touched  by  the  discovery  that  this 
little  huddled-up  man,  instead  of  travelling  with  the 
wind,  was  persistently  facing  a  domestic  gale  of  con 
siderable  velocity.  That  he  should  have  paid  off  his 
brother's  debt  at  one  stroke  was  to  the  young  man  a 
conceivable  feat ;  but  that  he  should  go  on  methodi 
cally  and  uninterruptedly  accumulating  the  needed 
amount,  under  the  perpetual  accusation  of  Irene's  in 
adequate  frocks  and  Mrs.  Carstyle's  apologies  for  the 
mutton,  seemed  to  Vibart  proof  of  unexampled  heroism. 
[  139] 


A    COWARD 

Mr.  Carstyle  was  as  inaccessible  as  the  average 
American  parent,  and  led  a  life  so  detached  from  the 
preoccupations  of  his  womankind  that  Vibart  had  some 
difficulty  in  fixing  his  attention.  To  Mr.  Carstyle,  Vibart 
was  simply  the  inevitable  young  man  who  had  been 
hanging  about  the  house  ever  since  Irene  had  left 
school ;  and  Vibart 's  efforts  to  differentiate  himself 
from  this  enamored  abstraction  were  hampered  by  Mrs. 
Carstyle' s  cheerful  assumption  that  he  was  the  young 
man,  and  by  Irene's  frank  appropriation  of  his  visits. 

In  this  extremity  he  suddenly  observed  a  slight  but 
significant  change  in  the  manner  of  the  two  ladies. 
Irene,  instead  of  charging  him  with  being  sarcastic 
and  horrid,  and  declaring  herself  unable  to  believe  a 
word  he  said,  began  to  receive  his  remarks  with  the 
impersonal  smile  which  he  had  seen  her  accord  to  the 
married  men  of  his  aunt's  house-parties ;  while  Mrs. 
Carstyle,  talking  over  his  head  to  an  invisible  but  evi 
dently  sympathetic  and  intelligent  listener,  debated 
the  propriety  of  Irene's  accepting  an  invitation  to 
spend  the  month  of  August  at  Narragansett.  When 
Vibart,  rashly  trespassing  on  the  rights  of  this  un 
seen  oracle,  remarked  that  a  few  weeks  at  the  sea 
shore  would  make  a  delightful  change  for  Miss  Car- 
style,  the  ladies  looked  at  him  and  then  laughed. 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Vibart,  for  the  first  time, 
found  himself  observed  by  Mr.  Carstyle.  They  were 
[  140] 


A     COWARD 

grouped  about  the  debris  of  a  luncheon  which  had 
ended  precipitously  with  veal  stew  (Mrs.  Carstyle  ex 
plaining  that  poor  cooks  always  failed  with  their  sweet 
dish  when  there  was  company)  and  Mr.  Carstyle,  his 
hands  thrust  in  his  pockets,  his  lean  baggy-coated 
shoulders  pressed  against  his  chair-back,  sat  contem 
plating  his  guest  with  a  smile  of  unmistakable  ap 
proval.  When  Vibart  caught  his  eye  the  smile  van 
ished,  and  Mr.  Carstyle,  dropping  his  glasses  from  the 
bridge  of  his  thin  nose,  looked  out  of  the  window  with 
the  expression  of  a  man  determined  to  prove  an  alibi. 
But  Vibart  was  sure  of  the  smile :  it  had  established, 
between  his  host  and  himself,  a  complicity  which  Mr. 
Carstyle's  attempted  evasion  served  only  to  confirm. 

On  the  strength  of  this  incident  Vibart,  a  few  days 
later,  called  at  Mr.  Carstyle's  office.  Ostensibly,  the 
young  man  had  come  to  ask,  on  his  aunt's  behalf, 
some  question  on  a  point  at  issue  between  herself 
and  the  Millbrook  telephone  company ;  but  his  pur 
pose  in  offering  to  perform  the  errand  had  been  the 
hope  of  taking  up  his  intercourse  with  Mr.  Carstyle 
where  that  gentleman's  smile  had  left  it.  Vibart  was 
not  disappointed.  In  a  dingy  office,  with  a  single  win 
dow  looking  out  on  a  blank  wall,  he  found  Mr.  Car- 
style,  in  an  alpaca  coat,  reading  Montaigne. 

It  evidently  did  not  occur  to  him  that  Vibart  had 
come  on  business,  and  the  warmth  of  his  welcome  gave 
[141] 


A    COWARD 

the  young  man  a  sense  of  furnishing  the  last  word  in 
a  conjugal  argument  in  which,  for  once,  Mr.  Carstyle 
had  come  off  triumphant. 

The  legal  question  disposed  of,  Vibart  reverted  to 
Montaigne :  had  Mr.  Carstyle  seen  young  So-and-so's 
volume  of  essays?  There  was  one  on  Montaigne  that 
had  a  decided  flavor :  the  point  of  view  was  curious. 
Vibart  was  surprised  to  find  that  Mr.  Carstyle  had 
heard  of  young  So-and-so.  Clever  young  men  are 
given  to  thinking  that  their  elders  have  never  got 
beyond  Macaulay ;  but  Mr.  Carstyle  seemed  suffi 
ciently  familiar  with  recent  literature  not  to  take  it 
too  seriously.  He  accepted  Vibart's  offer  of  young  So- 
and-so's  volume,  admitting  that  his  own  library  was 
not  exactly  up-to-date. 

Vibart  went  away  musing.  The  next  day  he  came 
back  with  the  volume  of  essays.  It  seemed  to  be  tacitly 
understood  that  he  was  to  call  at  the  office  when  he 
wished  to  see  Mr.  Carstyle,  whose  legal  engagements 
did  not  seriously  interfere  with  the  pursuit  of  literature. 

For  a  week  or  ten  days  Mrs.  Carstyle,  in  Vibart's 
presence,  continued  to  take  counsel  with  her  unseen 
adviser  on  the  subject  of  her  daughter's  visit  to  Nar- 
ragansett.  Once  or  twice  Irene  dropped  her  imper 
sonal  smile  to  tax  Vibart  with  not  caring  whether  she 
went  or  not ;  and  Mrs.  Carstyle  seized  a  moment  of 
tete-a-tete  to  confide  in  him  that  the  dear  child  hated 
[142] 


A    COWARD 

the  idea  of  leaving,  and  was  going  only  because  her 
friend  Mrs.  Higby  would  not  let  her  off.  Of  course,  if 
it  had  not  been  for  Mr.  Carstyle's  peculiarities  they 
would  have  had  their  own  seaside  home — at  Newport, 
probably :  Mrs.  Carstyle  preferred  the  tone  of  Newport 
— and  Irene  would  not  have  been  dependent  on  the 
charity  of  her  friends ;  but  as  it  was,  they  must  be 
thankful  for  small  mercies,  and  Mrs.  Higby  was  cer 
tainly  very  kind  in  her  way,  and  had  a  charming  social 
position — for  Narragansett. 

These  confidences,  however,  were  soon  superseded 
by  an  exchange,  between  mother  and  daughter,  of 
increasingly  frequent  allusions  to  the  delights  of  Nar 
ragansett,  the  popularity  of  Mrs.  Higby,  and  the  jolli- 
ness  of  her  house ;  with  an  occasional  reference  on 
Mrs.  Carstyle's  part  to  the  probability  of  Hewlett 
Bain's  being  there  as  usual — hadn't  Irene  heard  from 
Mrs.  Higby  that  he  was  to  be  there  ?  Upon  this  note 
Miss  Carstyle  at  length  departed,  leaving  Vibart  to 
the  undisputed  enjoyment  of  her  father's  company. 

Vibart  had  at  no  time  a  keen  taste  for  the  summer 
joys  of  Millbrook,  and  the  family  obligation  which, 
for  several  months  of  the  year,  kept  him  at  his  aunt's 
side  (Mrs.  Vance  was  a  childless  widow  and  he 
filled  the  onerous  post  of  favorite  nephew)  gave  a 
sense  of  compulsion  to  the  light  occupations  that 
chequered  his  leisure.  Mrs.  Vance,  who  fancied  herself 


A    COWARD 

lonely  when  he  was  away,  was  too  much  engaged  with 
notes,  telegrams  and  arriving  and  departing  guests, 
to  do  more  than  breathlessly  smile  upon  his  presence, 
or  implore  him  to  take  the  dullest  girl  of  the  party 
for  a  drive  (and  would  he  go  by  way  of  Millbrook, 
like  a  dear,  and  stop  at  the  market  to  ask  why  the 
lobsters  had  n't  come  ?) ;  and  the  house  itself,  and  the 
guests  who  came  and  went  in  it  like  people  rushing 
through  a  railway-station,  offered  no  points  of  repose 
to  his  thoughts.  Some  houses  are  companions  in  them 
selves  :  the  walls,  the  book-shelves,  the  very  chairs 
and  tables,  have  the  qualities  of  a  sympathetic  mind ; 
but  Mrs.  Vance's  interior  was  as  impersonal  as  the 
setting  of  a  classic  drama. 

These  conditions  made  Vibart  cultivate  an  assiduous 
exchange  of  books  between  himself  and  Mr.  Carstyle. 
The  young  man  went  down  almost  daily  to  the  little 
house  in  the  town,  where  Mrs.  Carstyle,  who  had  now 
an  air  of  receiving  him  in  curl-papers,  and  of  not  al 
ways  immediately  distinguishing  him  from  the  piano- 
tuner,  made  no  effort  to  detain  him  on  his  way  to  her 
husband's  study. 

Ill 

NOW  and  then,  at  the  close  of  one  of  Vibart 's 
visits,  Mr.  Carstyle  put  on  a  mildewed  Panama 
hat  and  accompanied  the  young  man  for  a  mile  or  two 
[  144] 


A     COWARD 

on  his  way  home.  The  road  to  Mrs.  Vance's  lay  through 
one  of  the  most  amiable  suburbs  of  Millbrook,  and 
Mr.  Carstyle,  walking  with  his  slow  uneager  step,  his 
hat  pushed  back,  and  his  stick  dragging  behind  him, 
seemed  to  take  a  philosophic  pleasure  in  the  aspect 
of  the  trim  lawns  and  opulent  gardens. 

Vibart  could  never  induce  his  companion  to  prolong 
his  walk  as  far  as  Mrs.  Vance's  drawing-room ;  but  one 
afternoon,  when  the  distant  hills  lay  blue  beyond  the 
twilight  of  overarching  elms,  the  two  men  strolled 
on  into  the  country  past  that  lady's  hospitable  gate 
posts. 

It  was  a  still  day,  the  road  was  deserted,  and  every 
sound  came  sharply  through  the  air.  Mr.  Carstyle 
was  in  the  midst  of  a  disquisition  on  Diderot,  when 
he  raised  his  head  and  stood  still. 

"What's  that?"  he  said.  "Listen!" 

Vibart  listened  and  heard  a  distant  storm  of  hoof- 
beats.  A  moment  later,  a  buggy  drawn  by  a  pair  of 
trotters  swung  round  the  turn  of  the  road.  It  was 
about  thirty  yards  off,  coming  toward  them  at  full 
speed.  The  man  who  drove  was  leaning  forward  with 
outstretched  arms;  beside  him  sat  a  girl. 

Suddenly  Vibart    saw  Mr.   Carstyle  jump   into   the 

middle  of  the  road,  in  front  of  the  buggy.  He  stood 

there  immovable,  his  arms  extended,  his  legs  apart,  in 

an  attitude  of  indomitable   resistance.   Almost  at  the 

[145] 


A     COWARD 

same    moment   Vibart   realized  that   the  man  in  the 
buggy  had  his  horses  in  hand. 

"They're  not  running!"  Vibart  shouted,  springing 
into  the  road  and  catching  Mr.  Carstyle's  alpaca  sleeve. 
The  older  man  looked  around  vaguely:  he  seemed 
dazed. 

"  Come  away,  sir,  come  away ! "  cried  Vibart,  grip 
ping  his  arm.  The  buggy  swept  past  them,  and  Mr. 
Carstyle  stood  in  the  dust  gazing  after  it. 

At  length  he  drew  out  his  handkerchief  and  wiped 
his  forehead.  He  was  very  pale  and  Vibart  noticed 
that  his  hand  shook. 

"That  was  a  close  call,  sir,  wasn't  it?  I  suppose 
you  thought  they  were  running." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Carstyle  slowly,  "I  thought  they 
were  running." 

"  It  certainly  looked  like  it  for  a  minute.  Let 's  sit 
down,  shall  we  ?  I  feel  rather  breathless  myself." 

Vibart  saw  that  his  friend  could  hardly  stand.  They 
seated  themselves  on  a  tree-trunk  by  the  roadside, 
and  Mr.  Carstyle  continued  to  wipe  his  forehead  in 
silence. 

At  length  he  turned  to  Vibart  and  said  abruptly : 

"  I  made  straight  for  the  middle  of  the  road,  did  n't 
I  ?  If  there  had  been  a  runaway  I  should  have  stopped 
it?" 

Vibart  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 
[146] 


A     COWARD 

"  You  would  have  tried  to,  undoubtedly,  unless  I  'd 
had  time  to  drag  you  away." 

Mr.   Carstyle  straightened  his  narrow  shoulders. 

"There  was  no  hesitation,  at  all  events?  I  —  I 
showed  no  signs  of — avoiding  it  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  not,  sir ;  it  was  I  who  funked  it  for 
you." 

Mr.  Carstyle  was  silent :  his  head  had  dropped  for 
ward  and  he  looked  like  an  old  man. 

"It  was  just  my  cursed  luck  again!"  he  exclaimed 
suddenly  in  a  loud  voice. 

For  a  moment  Vibart  thought  that  he  was  wander 
ing  ;  but  he  raised  his  head  and  went  on  speaking  in 
more  natural  tones. 

"  I  daresay  I  appeared  ridiculous  enough  to  you 
just  now,  eh?  Perhaps  you  saw  all  along  that  the 
horses  weren't  running?  Your  eyes  are  younger  than 
mine ;  and  then  you  're  not  always  looking  out  for 
runaways,  as  I  am.  Do  you  know  that  in  thirty  years 
I've  never  seen  a  runaway?" 

"You're  fortunate,"  said  Vibart,  still  bewildered. 

"  Fortunate  ?  Good  God,  man,  I  've  prayed  to  see 
one  :  not  a  runaway  especially,  but  any  bad  accident ; 
anything  that  endangered  people's  lives.  There  are 
accidents  happening  all  the  time  all  over  the  world  ; 
why  shouldn't  I  ever  come  across  one?  It's  not  for 
want  of  trying!  At  one  time  I  used  to  haunt  the 
[147] 


A     COWARD 

theatres  in  the  hope  of  a  fire :  fires  in  theatres  ar*  so 
apt  to  be  fatal.  Well,  will  you  believe  it  ?  I  was  in  *he 
Brooklyn  theatre  the  night  before  it  burned  down ; 
I  left  the  old  Madison  Square  Garden  half  an  hour 
before  the  walls  fell  in.  And  it's  the  same  way  with 
street  accidents — I  always  miss  them;  I'm  always  just 
too  late.  Last  year  there  was  a  boy  knocked  down  by 
a  cable-car  at  our  corner ;  I  got  to  my  gate  just  as  they 
were  carrying  him  off  on  a  stretcher.  And  so  it  goes.  If 
anybody  else  had  been  walking  along  this  road,  those 
horses  would  have  been  running  away.  And  there  was 
a  girl  in  the  buggy,  too — a  mere  child !  " 

Mr.  Carstyle's  head  sank  again. 

"  You  're  wondering  what  this  means,"  he  began 
after  another  pause.  "  I  was  a  little  confused  for  a 
moment — I  must  have  seemed  incoherent."  His  voice 
cleared  and  he  made  an  effort  to  straighten  himself. 
"  Well,  I  was  a  damned  coward  once  and  I  've  been 
trying  to  live  it  down  ever  since." 

Vibart  looked  at  him  incredulously  and  Mr.  Carstyle 
caught  the  look  with  a  smile. 

"  Why  not  ?  Do  I  look  like  a  Hercules  ?  "  He  held 
up  his  loose-skinned  hand  and  shrunken  wrist.  "Not 
built  for  the  part,  certainly ;  but  that  does  n't  count, 
of  course.  Man's  unconquerable  soul,  and  all  the  rest 
of  it  ...  well,  I  was  a  coward  every  inch  of  me, 
body  and  soul." 

[148] 


A     COWARD 

He  paused  and  glanced  up  and  down  the  road. 
There  was  no  one  in  sight. 

"It  happened  when  I  was  a  young  chap  just  out 
of  college.  I  was  travelling  round  the  world  with  an 
other  youngster  of  my  own  age  and  an  older  man — 
Charles  Meriton — who  has  since  made  a  name  for  him 
self.  You  may  have  heard  of  him." 

"Meriton,  the  archaeologist?  The  man  who  discov 
ered  those  ruined  African  cities  the  other  day  ?  " 

"  That 's  the  man.  He  was  a  college  tutor  then,  and 
my  father,  who  had  known  him  since  he  was  a  boy,  and 
who  had  a  very  high  opinion  of  him,  had  asked  him  to 
make  the  tour  with  us.  We  both — my  friend  Collis  and 
I — had  an  immense  admiration  for  Meriton.  He  was 
just  the  fellow  to  excite  a  boy's  enthusiasm :  cool, 
quick,  imperturbable — the  kind  of  man  whose  hand 
is  always  on  the  hilt  of  action.  His  explorations  had 
led  him  into  all  sorts  of  tight  places,  and  he  'd  shown 
an  extraordinary  combination  of  calculating  patience 
and  reckless  courage.  He  never  talked  about  his  do 
ings  ;  we  picked  them  up  from  various  people  on  our 
journey.  He  'd  been  everywhere,  he  knew  everybody, 
and  everybody  had  something  stirring  to  tell  about 
him.  I  daresay  this  account  of  the  man  sounds  exag 
gerated  ;  perhaps  it  is  ;  I  've  never  seen  him  since  ;  but 
at  that  time  he  seemed  to  me  a  tremendous  fellow — 
a  kind  of  scientific  Ajax.  He  was  a  capital  travelling- 
[  149  ] 


A     COWARD 

companion,  at  any  rate  :  good-tempered,  cheerful,  easily 
amused,  with  none  of  the  been-there-before  superiority 
so  irritating  to  youngsters.  He  made  us  feel  as  though 
it  were  all  as  new  to  him  as  to  us :  he  never  chilled 
our  enthusiasms  or  took  the  bloom  off  our  surprises. 
There  was  nobody  else  whose  good  opinion  I  cared  as 
much  about :  he  was  the  biggest  thing  in  sight. 

"On  the  way  home  Collis  broke  down  with  diph 
theria.  We  were  in  the  Mediterranean,  cruising  about 
the  Sporades  in  a  felucca.  He  was  taken  ill  at  Chios. 
The  attack  came  on  suddenly  and  we  were  afraid  to 
run  the  risk  of  taking  him  back  to  Athens  in  the 
felucca.  We  established  ourselves  in  the  inn  at  Chios 
and  there  the  poor  fellow  lay  for  weeks.  Luckily  there 
was  a  fairly  good  doctor  on  the  island  and  we  sent 
to  Athens  for  a  sister  to  help  with  the  nursing.  Poor 
Collis  was  desperately  bad :  the  diphtheria  was  fol 
lowed  by  partial  paralysis.  The  doctor  assured  us  that 
the  danger  was  past ;  he  would  gradually  regain  the 
use  of  his  limbs ;  but  his  recovery  would  be  slow.  The 
sister  encouraged  us  too — she  had  seen  such  cases  be 
fore  ;  and  he  certainly  did  improve  a  shade  each  day. 
Meriton  and  I  had  taken  turns  with  the  sister  in  nurs 
ing  him,  but  after  the  paralysis  had  set  in  there  was  n't 
much  to  do,  and  there  was  nothing  to  prevent  Meri- 
ton's  leaving  us  for  a  day  or  two.  He  had  received 
word  from  some  place  on  the  coast  of  Asia  Minor  that 
[  150  ] 


A     COWARD 

a  remarkable  tomb  had  been  discovered  somewhere  in 
the  interior ;  he  had  not  been  willing  to  take  us  there, 
as  the  journey  was  not  a  particularly  safe  one  ;  but  now 
that  we  were  tied  up  at  Chios  there  seemed  no  reason 
why  he  should  n't  go  and  take  a  look  at  the  place.  The 
expedition  would  not  take  more  than  three  days ;  Col- 
lis  was  convalescent ;  the  doctor  and  nurse  assured  us 
that  there  was  no  cause  for  uneasiness ;  and  so  Meriton 
started  off  one  evening  at  sunset.  I  walked  down  to  the 
quay  with  him  and  saw  him  rowed  off  to  the  felucca. 
I  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  be  going  with  him ; 
the  prospect  of  danger  allured  me. 

" '  You  '11  see  that  Collis  is  never  left  alone,  won't 
you  ? '  he  shouted  back  to  me  as  the  boat  pulled  out 
into  the  harbor;  I  remembered  I  rather  resented  the 
suggestion. 

"  I  walked  back  to  the  inn  and  went  to  bed :  the 
nurse  sat  up  with  Collis  at  night.  The  next  morning 
I  relieved  her  at  the  usual  hour.  It  was  a  sultry  day 
with  a  queer  coppery-looking  sky ;  the  air  was  stifling. 
In  the  middle  of  the  day  the  nurse  came  to  take  my 
place  while  I  dined ;  when  I  went  back  to  Collis's 
room  she  said  she  would  go  out  for  a  breath  of  air. 

"  I  sat  down  by  Collis's  bed  and  began  to  fan  him 

with  the  fan  the  sister  had  been  using.  The  heat  made 

him  uneasy  and  I  turned  him  over  in  bed,  for  he  was 

still  helpless :  the  whole  of  his  right  side  was  numb. 

[151] 


A    COWARD 

Presently  he  fell  asleep  and  I  went  to  the  window 
and  sat  looking  down  on  the  hot  deserted  square, 
with  a  bunch  of  donkeys  and  their  drivers  asleep  in 
the  shade  of  the  convent-wall  across  the  way.  I  re 
member  noticing  the  blue  beads  about  the  donkeys' 
necks  .  .  .  Were  you  ever  *in  an  earthquake?  No? 
I  'd  never  been  in  one  either.  It 's  an  indescribable 
sensation  .  .  .  there's  a  Day  of  Judgment  feeling  in 
the  air.  It  began  with  the  donkeys  waking  up  and 
trembling ;  I  noticed  that  and  thought  it  queer.  Then 
the  drivers  jumped  up — I  saw  the  terror  in  their  faces. 
Then  a  roar  ...  I  remember  noticing  a  big  black  crack 
in  the  con  vent- wall  opposite — a  zig-zag  crack,  like 
a  flash  of  lightning  in  a  wood-cut  ...  I  thought  of 
that,  too,  at  the  time ;  then  all  the  bells  in  the  place 
began  to  ring — it  made  a  fearful  discord  ...  I  saw 
people  rushing  across  the  square  .  .  .  the  air  was  full 
of  crashing  noises.  The  floor  went  down  under  me  in 
a  sickening  way  and  then  jumped  back  and  pitched 
me  to  the  ceiling  .  .  .  but  where  was  the  ceiling? 
And  the  door?  I  said  to  myself:  We're  two  stories  up 
— the  stairs  are  just  wide  enough  for  one  ...  I  gave 
one  glance  at  Collis :  he  was  lying  in  bed,  wide  awake, 
looking  straight  at  me.  I  ran.  Something  struck  me 
on  the  head  as  I  bolted  downstairs — I  kept  on 
running.  I  suppose  the  knock  I  got  dazed  me,  for  I 
don't  remember  much  of  anything  till  I  found  myself 
[152] 


A    COWARD 

In  a  vineyard  a  mile  from  the  town.  I  was  roused 
by  the  warm  blood  running  down  my  nose  and  heard 
myself  explaining  to  Meriton  exactly  how  it  had  hap 
pened  .  .  . 

"When  I  crawled  back  to  the  town  they  told  me 
that  all  the  houses  near  the  inn  were  in  ruins  and  that 
a  dozen  people  had  been  killed.  Collis  was  among 
them,  of  course.  The  ceiling  had  come  down  on  him." 

Mr.  Carstyle  wiped  his  forehead.  Vibart  sat  looking 
away  from  him. 

"  Two  days  later  Meriton  came  back.  I  began  to  tell 
him  the  story,  but  he  interrupted  me. 

"' There  was  no  one  with  him  at  the  time,  then? 
You  'd  left  him  alone  ? ' 

"'No,  he  wasn't  alone/ 

" '  Who  was  with  him  ?  You  said  the  sister  was  out.' 

(< '  I  was  with  him.' 

" '  You  were  with  him  ? ' 

"  I  shall  never  forget  Meriton's  look.  I  believe  I  had 
meant  to  explain,  to  accuse  myself,  to  shout  out  my 
agony  of  soul ;  but  I  saw  the  uselessness  of  it.  A  door 
had  been  shut  between  us.  Neither  of  us  spoke  an 
other  word.  He  was  very  kind  to  me  on  the  way 
home ;  he  looked  after  me  in  a  motherly  way  that 
was  a  good  deal  harder  to  stand  than  his  open  con 
tempt.  I  saw  the  man  was  honestly  trying  to  pity 
me;  but  it  was  no  good — he  simply  couldn't." 
[  153] 


A     COWARD 

Mr.  Carstyle  rose  slowly,  with  a  certain  stiffness. 

"  Shall  we  turn  toward  home  ?  Perhaps  I  'm  keep 
ing  you." 

They  walked  on  a  few  steps  in  silence ;  then  he 
spoke  again. 

"That  business  altered  my  whole  life.  Of  course  I 
oughtn't  to  have  allowed  it  to — that  was  another 
form  of  cowardice.  But  I  saw  myself  only  with  Meri- 
ton's  eyes — it  is  one  of  the  worst  miseries  of  youth 
that  one  is  always  trying  to  be  somebody  else.  I  had 
meant  to  be  a  Meriton — I  saw  I'd  better  go  home 
and  study  law  .  .  . 

"It's  a  childish  fancy,  a  survival  of  the  primitive 
savage,  if  you  like ;  but  from  that  hour  to  this  I'  ve 
hankered  day  and  night  for  a  chance  to  retrieve  my 
self,  to  set  myself  right  with  the  man  I  meant  to  be. 
I  want  to  prove  to  that  man  that  it  was  all  an  acci 
dent — an  unaccountable  deviation  from  my  normal  in 
stincts  ;  that  having  once  been  a  coward  does  n't  mean 
that  a  man 's  cowardly  .  .  .  and  I  can't,  I  can't ! " 

Mr.  Carstyle' s  tone  had  passed  insensibly  from  agita 
tion  to  irony.  He  had  got  back  to  his  usual  objective 
stand-point. 

"Why,  I 'm  a  perfect  olive-branch,"  he  concluded, 

with  his  dry  indulgent  laugh ;  "  the  very  babies  stop 

crying  at  my  approach — I  carry  a  sort  of  millennium 

about  with  me — I'd  make  my  fortune  as  an  agent  of 

[  154] 


A     COWARD 

the  Peace  Society.  I  shall  go  to  the  grave  leaving  that 
other  man  unconvinced!" 

Vibart  walked  back- with  him  to  Millbrook.  On  her 
doorstep  they  met  Mrs.  Carstyle,  flushed  and  feath 
ered,  with  a  card-case  and  dusty  boots. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  in,"  she  said  plaintively,  to  Vibart, 
"  because  I  can't  answer  for  the  food  this  evening.  My 
maid-of-all-work  tells  me  that  she  's  going  to  a  ball — 
which  is  more  than  I  've  done  in  years !  And  besides, 
it  would  be  cruel  to  ask  you  to  spend  such  a  hot 
evening  in  our  stuffy  little  house — the  air  is  so  much 
cooler  at  Mrs.  Vance's.  Remember  me  to  Mrs.  Vance, 
please,  and  tell  her  how  sorry  I  am  that  I  can  no 
longer  include  her  in  rny  round  of  visits.  When  I  had 
my  carriage  I  saw  the  people  I  liked,  but  now  that 
I  have  to  walk,  my  social  opportunities  are  more 
limited.  I  was  not  obliged  to  do  my  visiting  on  foot 
when  I  was  younger,  and  my  doctor  tells  me  that  to 
persons  accustomed  to  a  carriage  no  exercise  is  more 
injurious  than  walking." 

She  glanced  at  her  husband  with  a  smile  of  unfor 
giving  sweetness. 

"  Fortunately,"  she  concluded,  "  it  agrees  with  Mr. 
Carstyle." 


[  155  ] 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE    GOD 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE     GOD 

I 

A  Newport  drawing-room.  Tapestries,  flowers,  bric-a-brac. 
Through  the  windows,  a  geranium-edged  lawn,  the  cliffs 
and  the  sea.  Isabel  Warland  sits  reading.  Lucius  War- 
land  enters  in  flannels  and  a  yachting-cap. 

ISABEL.  Back  already  ? 
Warland.  The  wind   dropped — it   turned   into   a 
drifting  race.  Langham  took  me  off  the  yacht  on 
his  launch.  What   time  is  it  ?   Two  o'clock  ?  Where 's 
Mrs.  Raynor? 

Isabel.  On  her  way  to  New  York. 
Warland.  To  New  York? 

Isabel.  Precisely.  The   boat   must   be  just   leaving; 
she  started   an   hour  ago  and    took   Laura  with  her. 
In  fact   I  'm  alone  in  the  house — that  is,  until  this 
evening.  Some  people  are  coming  then. 
Warland.  But  what  in  the  world — 
Isabel.  Her    aunt,    Mrs.     Griscom,    has    had    a    fit. 
She    has    them    constantly.    They're    not   serious — at 
least   they   wouldn't   be,   if  Mrs.    Griscom   were   not 
so  rich — and  childless.   Naturally,  under  the  circum 
stances,    Marian   feels   a   peculiar   sympathy   for   her; 
her  position  is  such  a  sad  one ;  there 's  positively  no 
[159] 


THE     TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

one  to  care  whether  she  lives  or  dies — except  her 
heirs.  Of  course  they  all  rush  to  Newburgh  whenever 
she  has  a  fit.  It's  hard  on  Marian,  for  she  lives  the 
farthest  away ;  but  she  has  come  to  an  understanding 
with  the  housekeeper,  who  always  telegraphs  her  first, 
so  that  she  gets  a  start  of  several  hours.  She  will  be  at 
Newburgh  to-night  at  ten,  and  she  has  calculated  that 
the  others  can't  possibly  arrive  before  midnight. 

Warland.  You  have  a  delightful  way  of  putting 
things.  I  suppose  you'd  talk  of  me  like  that. 

Isabel  Oh,  no.  It's  too  humiliating  to  doubt  one's 
husband's  disinterestedness. 

Warland.  I  wish  I  had  a  rich  aunt  who  had  fits. 

Isabel.  If  I  were  wishing  I  should  choose  heart- 
disease. 

Warland.  There's  no  doing  anything  without  money 
or  influence. 

Isabel  (picking  up  her  book).  Have  you  heard  from 
Washington  ? 

Warland.  Yes.  That's  what  I  was  going  to  speak 
of  when  I  asked  for  Mrs.  Raynor.  I  wanted  to  bid 
her  good-bye. 

Isabel.  You're  going? 

Warland.  By  the  five  train.  Fagott  has  just  wired 
me  that  the  Ambassador  will  be  in  Washington  on 
Monday.  He  hasn't  named  his  secretaries  yet,  but 
there  isn't  much  hope  for  me.  He  has  a  nephew — 

[160] 


THE     TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

Isabel.  They  always  have.  Like  the  Popes. 

Warland.  Well,  I'm  going  all  the  same.  You'll 
explain  to  Mrs.  Raynor  if  she  gets  back  before  I 
do?  Are  there  to  be  people  at  dinner?  I  don't  sup 
pose  it  matters.  You  can  always  pick  up  an  extra 
man  on  a  Saturday. 

Isabel.  By  the  way,  that  reminds  me  that  Marian 
left  me  a  list  of  the  people  who  are  arriving  this 
afternoon.  My  novel  is  so  absorbing  that  I  forgot  to 
look  at  it.  Where  can  it  be?  Ah,  here — Let  me  see: 
the  Jack  Merringtons,  Adelaide  Clinton,  Ned  Lender 
— all  from  New  York,  by  seven  p.  M.  train.  Lewis 
Darley  to-night,  by  Fall  River  boat.  John  Oberville, 
from  Boston  at  five  P.M.  Why,  I  didn't  know— 

Warland  (excitedly).  John  Oberville?  John  Ober 
ville?  Here?  To-day  at  five  o'clock?  Let  me  see — 
let  me  look  at  the  list.  Are  you  sure  you're  not 
mistaken?  Why,  she  never  said  a  word!  Why  the 
deuce  did  n't  you  tell  me  ? 

Isabel.  I  did  n't  know. 

Warland.  Oberville — Oberville  — ! 

Isabel.  Why,  what  difference  does  it  make  ? 

Warland.  What  difference?  What  difference?  Don't 
look  at  me  as  if  you  did  n't  understand  English ! 
Why,  if  Oberville' s  coming — (a  pause)  Look  here, 
Isabel,  didn't  you  know  him  very  well  at  one  time? 

Isabel.  Very  well — yes. 

[161] 


THE     TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

Warland.  I  thought  so — of  course — I  remember 
now ;  I  heard  all  about  it  before  I  met  you.  Let  me 
see — didn't  you  and  your  mother  spend  a  winter  in 
Washington  when  he  was  Under-secretary  of  State? 

Isabel.  That  was  before  the  deluge. 

Warland.  I  remember — it  all  comes  back  to  me.  I 
used  to  hear  it  said  that  he  admired  you  tremend 
ously;  there  was  a  report  that  you  were  engaged. 
Don't  you  remember  ?  Why,  it  was  in  all  the  papers. 
By  Jove,  Isabel,  what  a  match  that  would  have  been ! 

Isabel.  You  are  disinterested ! 

Warland.  Well,  I  can't  help  thinking — 

Isabel.  That  I  paid  you  a  handsome  compliment  ? 

Warland  (preoccupied).  Eh?  —  Ah,  yes  —  exactly. 
What  was  I  saying?  Oh — about  the  report  of  your 
engagement.  (Playfully.)  He  was  awfully  gone  on 
you,  was  n't  he  ? 

Isabel.  It's  not  for  me  to  diminish  your  triumph. 

Warland.  By  Jove,  I  can't  think  why  Mrs.  Raynor 
didn't  tell  me  he  was  coming.  A  man  like  that — 
one  doesn't  take  him  for  granted,  like  the  piano- 
tuner!  I  wonder  I  didn't  see  it  in  the  papers. 

Isabel.  Is  he  grown  such  a  great  man? 

Warland.  Oberville ?    Great?    John    Oberville?    I'll 

tell  you  what  he  is — the  power  behind  the  throne, 

the  black  Pope,  the  King-maker  and  all  the  rest  of 

it.  Don't  you  read  the  papers  ?  Of  course  I  '11  never 

[162] 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE    GOD 

get  on  if  you  won't  interest  yourself  in  politics.  And 
to  think  you  might  have  married  that  man ! 

Isabel.  And  got  you  your  secretaryship ! 

Warland.  Oberville  has  them  all  in  the  hollow  of 
his  hand. 

Isabel.  Well,  you  '11  see  him  at  five  o'clock. 

Warland.  I  don 't  suppose  he 's  ever  heard  of  me, 
worse  luck !  ( A  silence.)  Isabel,  look  here.  I  never  ask 
questions,  do  I  ?  But  it  was  so  long  ago — and  Ober 
ville  almost  belongs  to  history — he  will  one  of  these 
days  at  any  rate.  Just  tell  me — did  he  want  to  marry 
you? 

Isabel.  Since  you  answer  for  his  immortality — (after 
a  pause)  I  was  very  much  in  love  with  him. 

Warland.  Then  of  course  he  did.  (Another  pause.)  But 
what  in  the  world — 

Isabel  (musing).  As  you  say,  it  was  so  long  ago ;  I 
don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  tell  you.  There  was  a  mar 
ried  woman  who  had — what  is  the  correct  expression? 
— made  sacrifices  for  him.  There  was  only  one  sacrifice 
she  objected  to  making — and  he  didn't  consider  him 
self  free.  It  sounds  rather  rococo,  doesn't  it?  It  was 
odd  that  she  died  the  year  after  we  were  married. 

Warland.  Whew! 

Isabel  (following  her  own  thoughts).  I  've  never  seen 
him  since ;  it  must  be  ten  years  ago.  I  'm  certainly 
thirty-two,  and  I  was  just  twenty-two  then.  It 's  curi- 
[163] 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE    GOD 

ous  to  talk  of  it.  I  had  put  it  away  so  carefully.  How 
it  smells  of  camphor !  And  what  an  old-fashioned  cut 
it  has !  (Rising.}  Where 's  the  list,  Lucius  ?  You  wanted 
to  know  if  there  were  to  be  people  at  dinner  to 
night — 

Warland.  Here  it  is — but  never  mind.  Isabel — 
(silence)  Isabel — 

Isabel.  Well? 

Warland.  It's  odd  he  never  married. 

Isabel.  The  comparison  is  to  my  disadvantage.  But 
then  I  met  you. 

Warland.  Don't  be  so  confoundedly  sarcastic.  I  won 
der  how  he  '11  feel  about  seeing  you.  Oh,  I  don't  mean 
any  sentimental  rot,  of  course  .  .  .  but  you're  an 
uncommonly  agreeable  woman.  I  daresay  he'll  be 
pleased  to  see  you  again ;  you  're  fifty  times  more 
attractive  than  when  I  married  you. 

Isabel.  I  wish  your  other  investments  had  appre 
ciated  at  the  same  rate.  Unfortunately  my  charms 
won't  pay  the  butcher. 

Warland.  Damn  the  butcher! 

Isabel.  I  happened  to  mention  him  because  he's 
just  written  again ;  but  I  might  as  well  have  said  the 
baker  or  the  candlestick-maker.  The  candlestick-maker 
—  I  wonder  what  he  is,  by  the  way?  He, must  have 
more  faith  in  human  nature  than  the  others,  for  I 
haven't  heard  from  him  yet.  I  wonder  if  there  is  a 
[164] 


THE     TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

Creditor's  Polite  Letter-writer  which  they  all  consult ; 
their  style  is  so  exactly  alike.  I  advise  you  to  pass 
through  New  York  incognito  on  your  way  to  Washing 
ton  ;  their  attentions  might  be  oppressive. 

Warland.  Confoundedly  oppressive.  What  a  dog's  life 
it  is !  My  poor  Isabel — 

Isabel.  Don't  pity  me.  I  did  n't  marry  you  for  a  home. 

Warland  (after  a  pause).  What  did  you  marry  me 
for,  if  you  cared  for  Oberville  ?  (Another  pause.)  Eh  ? 

Isabel.  Don't  make  me  regret  my  confidence. 

Warland.  I  beg  your  pardon. 

Isabel.  Oh,  it  was  only  a  subterfuge  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  I  have  no  distinct  recollection  of  my  rea 
sons.  The  fact  is,  a  girl's  motives  in  marrying  are 
like  a  passport — apt  to  get  mislaid.  One  is  so  sel 
dom  asked  for  either.  But  mine  certainly  couldn't 
have  been  mercenary :  I  never  heard  a  mother  praise 
you  to  her  daughters. 

Warland.  No,  I  never  was  much  of  a  match. 

Isabel  You  impugn  my  judgment. 

Warland.  If  I  only  had  a  head  for  business,  now,  I 
might  have  done  something  by  this  time.  But  I'd 
sooner  break  stones  in  the  road. 

Isabel.  It  must  be  very  hard  to  get  an  opening  in 
that  profession.  So  many  of  my  friends  have  aspired  to 
it,  and  yet  I  never  knew  any  one  who  actually  did  it. 

Warland.  If  I  could  only  get  the  secretaryship. 
[165] 


THE     TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

How  that  kind  of  life  would  suit  you !  It 's  as  much 
for  you  that  I  want  it — 

Isabel.  And  almost  as  much  for  the  butcher.  Don't 
belittle  the  circle  of  your  benevolence.  (She  walks 
across  the  room.)  Three  o'clock  already — and  Marian 
asked  me  to  give  orders  about  the  carriages.  Let  me 
see — Mr.  Oberville  is  the  first  arrival ;  if  you  '11  ring 
I  will  send  word  to  the  stable.  I  suppose  you  '11  stay 
now? 

Warland.  Stay? 

Isabel.  Not  go  to  Washington.  I  thought  you  spoke 
as  if  he  could  help  you. 

Warland.  He  could  settle  the  whole  thing  in  five 
minutes.  The  President  can't  refuse  him  anything.  But 
he  does  n't  know  me ;  he  may  have  a  candidate  of  his 
own.  It's  a  pity  you  haven't  seen  him  for  so  long — 
and  yet  I  don't  know ;  perhaps  it 's  just  as  well.  The 
others  don't  arrive  till  seven?  It  seems  as  if — How 
long  is  he  going  to  be  here?  Till  to-morrow  night,  I 
suppose  ?  I  wonder  what  he 's  come  for.  The  Merring- 
tons  will  bore  him  to  death,  and  Adelaide,  of  course, 
will  be  philandering  with  Lender.  I  wonder  (a  pause) 
if  Darley  likes  boating.  (Rings  the  bell.) 

Isabel.  Boating? 

Warland.  Oh,  I  was  only  thinking — Where  are  the 
matches?  One  may  smoke  here,  I  suppose?  (He  looks 
at  his  wife.)  If  I  were  you  I  'd  put  on  that  black  gown 
[166] 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE     GOD 

of  yours  to-night — the  one  with  the  spangles.  —  It's 
only  that  Fred  Langham  asked  me  to  go  over  to  Nar- 
ragansett  in  his  launch  to-morrow  morning,  and  I  was , 
thinking  that    I  might   take  Darley;    I  always  liked 
Darley. 

Isabel  (to  the  footman  who  enters).  Mrs.  Raynor  wishes 
the  dog-cart  sent  to  the  station  at  five  o'clock  to  meet 
Mr.  Oberville. 

Footman.  Very  good,  m'm.  Shall  I  serve  tea  at  the 
usual  time,  m'm  ? 

Isabel.  Yes.  That  is,  when  Mr.  Oberville  arrives. 

Footman  (going  out).  Very  good,  m'm. 

War  land  (to  Isabel,  who  is  moving  toward  the  door). 
Where  are  you  going? 

Isabel.  To  my  room  now — for  a  walk  later. 

Warland.  Later?  It's  past  three  already. 

Isabel.  I  've  no  engagement  this  afternoon. 

Warland.  Oh,  I  didn't  know.  (As  she  reaches  the 
door.)  You'll  be  back,  I  suppose? 

Isabel.  I  have  no  intention  of  eloping. 

Wirland.  For  tea,  I  mean? 

Isabel.  I  never  take  tea.  f  Warland  shrugs  his  shoul 
ders.) 


[167] 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE     GOD 

II 

The  same  drawing-room.  Isabel  enters  from  the  lawn 
in  hat  and  gloves.  The  tea-table  is  set  out,  and  the  footman 
just  lighting  the  lamp  under  the  kettle. 

ISABEL.    You   may   take   the    tea-things    away.    I 
never  take  tea. 

Footman.  Very  good,  m'm.  (He  hesitates.)  I  under 
stood,  m'm,  that  Mr.  Oberville  was  to  have  tea? 

Isabel.  Mr.  Oberville?  But  he  was  to  arrive  long 
ago !  What  time  is  it  ? 

Footman.  Only  a  quarter  past  five,  m'm. 

Isabel.  A  quarter  past  five  ?  ( She  goes  up  to  the  clock.) 
Surely  you're  mistaken?  I  thought  it  was  long  after 
six.  (To  herself.)  I  walked  and  walked — I  must  have 
walked  too  fast  .  .  .  (To  the  Footman.)  I  'm  going  out 
again.  When  Mr.  Oberville  arrives  please  give  him  his 
tea  without  waiting  for  me.  I  shall  not  be  back  till 
dinner-time. 

Footman.  Very  good,  m'm.  Here  are  some  letters, 
m'm. 

Isabel  (glancing  at  them  with  a  movement  of  disgust). 
You  may  send  them  up  to  my  room. 

Footman.  I  beg  pardon,  m'm,  but  one  is  a  note  from 
Mme  Fanfreluche,  and  the  man  who  brought  it  is 
waiting  for  an  answer. 

[168] 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE    GOD 

Isabel.  Didn't  you  tell  him  I  was  out? 

Footman.  Yes,  m'm.  But  he  said  he  had  orders  to 
wait  till  you  came  in. 

Isabel.  Ah — let  me  see.  (She  opens  the  note.)  Ah,  yes. 
(A  pause.)  Please  say  that  I  am  on  my  way  now  to 
Mme  Fanfreluche's  to  give  her  the  answer  in  person. 
You  may  tell  the  man  that  I  have  already  started.  Do 
you  understand?  Already  started. 

Footman.  Yes,  m'm. 

Isabel.  And— wait.  (With  an  effort.)  You  may  tell 
me  when  the  man  has  started.  I  shall  wait  here  till 
then.  Be  sure  you  let  me  know. 

Footman.  Yes,  m'm.  (He  goes  out.) 

Isabel  (sinking  into  a  chair  and  hiding  her  face).  Ah! 
(After  a  moment  she  rises,  taking  up  her  gloves  and  sun 
shade,  and  walks  toward  the  window  which  opens  on  the 
lawn.)  I  'm  so  tired.  ( She  hesitates  and  turns  back  into 
the  room.)  Where  can  I  go  to  ?  (She  sits  down  again  by 
the  tea-table,  and  bends  over  the  kettle.  The  clock  strikes 
half -past  Jive.) 

Isabel  (picking  up  her  sunshade,  walks  back  to  the  win 
dow).  If  I  must  meet  one  of  them  .  .  . 

Oberville  (speaking  in  the  hall).  Thanks.  I  '11  take  tea 
first.  (He  enters  the  room,  and  pauses  doubtfully  on  seeing 
Isabel.) 

Isabel  (stepping  towards  him  with  a  smile).  It 's  not 
that  I  've  changed,  of  course,  but  only  that  I  happened 
[169] 


THE     TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

to  have  my  back  to  the  light.    Isn't  that  what  you 
are  going  to  say? 

Oberville.  Mrs.  Warland ! 

Isabel.  So  you  really  have  become  a  great  man !  They 
always  remember  people's  names. 

Oberville.  Were  you  afraid  I  was  going  to  call  you  Isabel  ? 

Isabel.  Bravo  !  Crescendo  ! 

Oberville.  But  you  have  changed,  all  the  same. 

Isabel.  You  must  indeed  have  reached  a  dizzy  emi 
nence,  since  you  can  indulge  yourself  by  speaking  the 
truth ! 

Oberville.  It 's  your  voice.  I  knew  it  at  once,  and  yet 
it's  different. 

Isabel.  I  hope  it  can  still  convey  the  pleasure  I  feel 
in  seeing  an  old  friend.  ( She  holds  out  her  hand.  He  takes 
it.}  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  Mrs.  Raynor  is  not  here 
to  receive  you  ?  She  was  called  away  this  morning  very 
suddenly  by  her  aunt's  illness. 

Oberville.  Yes.  She  left  a  note  for  me.  (Absently.} 
I  'm  sorry  to  hear  of  Mrs.  Griscom's  illness. 

Isabel.  Oh,  Mrs.  Griscom's  illnesses  are  less  alarming 
than  her  recoveries.  But  I  am  forgetting  to  offer  you 
any  tea.  ( She  hands  him  a  cup.)  I  remember  you  liked  it 
very  strong. 

Oberville.  What  else  do  you  remember? 

Isabel.  A  number  of  equally  useless  things.  My  mind 
is  a  store-room  of  obsolete  information. 
[170] 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE    GOB 

Oberville.  Why  obsolete,  since  I  am  providing  you 
^dth  a  use  for  it? 

Isabel.  At  any  rate,  it 's  open  to  question  whether 
it  was  worth  storing  for  that  length  of  time.  Especially 
as  there  must  have  been  others  more  fitted — by  op-1 
portunity — to  undertake  the  duty. 

Oberville.  The  duty? 

Isabel.  Of  remembering  how  you  like  your  tea. 

Oberville  (with  a  change  of  tone).  Since  you  call  it  a 
duty — I  may  remind  you  that  it's  one  I  have  never 
asked  any  one  else  to  perform. 

Isabel.  As  a  duty !  But  as  a  pleasure  ? 

Oberville.  Do  you  really  want  to  know? 

Isabel.  Oh,  I  don't  require  and  charge  you. 

Oberville.  You  dislike  as  much  as  ever  having  the  i's 
dotted? 

Isabel.  With  a  handwriting  I  know  as  well  as  yours  I 

Oberville  (recovering  his  lightness  of  manner ).  Accom 
plished  woman !  (He  examines  her  approvingly.)  I  'd  no 
idea  that  you  were  here.  I  never  was  more  surprised. 

Isabel.  I  hope  you  like  being  surprised.  To  my  mind 
it's  an  overrated  pleasure. 

Oberville.  Is  it  ?  I  'm  sorry  to  hear  that. 

Isabel.  Why?  Have  you  a  surprise  to  dispose  of? 

Oberville.  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  have  n't. 

Isabel.  Don't  part  with  it  too  hastily.  It  may  improve 
by  being  kept. 

[171] 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE     GOD 

Oberville  ( tentatively ).  Does  that  mean  that  you  don't 
want  it? 

Isabel.  Heaven  forbid !  I  want  everything  I  can  get. 

Oberville.  And  you  get  everything  you  want.  At 
least  you  used  to. 

Isabel.  Let  us  talk  of  your  surprise. 

Oberville.  It 's  to  be  yours,  you  know.  (A  pause.  He 
speaks  gravely.)  I  find  that  I  've  never  got  over  having 
lost  you. 

Isabel  (also  gravely).  And  is  that  a  surprise — to  you 
too? 

Oberville.  Honestly — yes.  I  thought  I  'd  crammed 
my  life  full.  I  didn't  know  there  was  a  cranny  left 
anywhere.  At  first,  you  know,  I  stuffed  in  everything 
I  could  lay  my  hands  on — there  was  such  a  big  void 
to  fill.  And  after  all  I  have  n't  filled  it.  I  felt  that  the 
moment  I  saw  you.  (A  pause.)  I  'm  talking  stupidly. 

Isabel.  It  would  be  odious  if  you  were  eloquent. 

Oberville.  What  do  you  mean? 

Isabel.  That 's  a  question  you  never  used  to  ask  me. 

Oberville.  Be  merciful.  Remember  how  little  practise 
I  've  had  lately. 

Isabel.   In  what? 

Oberville.  Never  mind !  (He  rises  and  walks  arvay ; 
then  comes  back  and  stands  in  front  of  her.)  What  a  fool 
I  was  to  give  you  up ! 

Isabel.  Oh,  don't  say  that!  I've  lived  on  it! 
[  m] 


THE     TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

Oberville.  On  my  letting  you  go  ? 

Isabel.  On  your  letting  everything  go — but  the 
right. 

Oberville.  Oh,  hang  the  right!  What  is  truth?  We 
had  the  right  to  be  happy ! 

Isabel  (with  rising  emotion).  I  used  to  think  so  some 
times. 

Oberville.  Did  you  ?  Triple  fool  that  I  was ! 

Isabel.  But  you  showed  me — 

Oberville.  Why,  good  God,  we  belonged  to  each 
other — and  I  let  you  go !  It 's  fabulous.  I  've  fought  for 
things  since  that  weren't  worth  a  crooked  sixpence ;, 
fought  as  well  as  other  men.  And  you — you — I  lost 
you  because  I  could  n't  face  a  scene !  Hang  it,  suppose 
there 'd  been  a  dozen  scenes — I  might  have  survived 
them.  Men  have  been  known  to.  They're  not  neces 
sarily  fatal. 

Isabel.  A  scene? 

Oberville.  It 's  a  form  of  fear  that  women  don't  un 
derstand.  How  you  must  have  despised  me ! 

Isabel.  You  were — afraid — of  a  scene? 

Oberville.  I  was  a  damned  coward,  Isabel.  That's 
about  the  size  of  it. 

Isabel.  Ah — I  had  thought  it  so  much  larger! 

Oberville.  What  did  you  say? 

Isabel.  I  said  that  you  have  forgotten  to  drink  your 
tea.  It  must  be  quite  cold. 

[173] 


THE    TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

Oberville.  Ah— 

Isabel.  Let  me  give  you  another  cup. 

Oberville  (collecting  himself}.  No — no.  This  is  perfect. 

Isabel.  You  haven't  tasted  it. 

Oberville  (falling  into  her  mood}.  You  always  made 
it  to  perfection.  Only  you  never  gave  me  enough  sugar. 

Isabel.  I  know  better  now.  ( She  puts  another  lump  in 
his  cup.) 

Oberville  (drinks  his  tea,  and  then  says,  with  an  air  of 
reproach}.  Isn't  all  this  chaff  rather  a  waste  of  time 
between  two  old  friends  who  have  n't  met  for  so  many 
years  ? 

Isabel  (lightly}.  Oh,  it 's  only  a  hors  d'oeuvre — the 
tuning  of  the  instruments.  I  'm  out  of  practise  too. 

Oberville.  Let  us  come  to  the  grand  air,  then.  (Sits 
down  near  her.}  Tell  me  about  yourself.  What  are  you 
doing  ? 

Isabel.  At  this  moment?  You'll  never  guess.  I'm 
trying  to  remember  you. 

Oberville.  To  remember  me? 

Isabel.  Until  you  came  into  the  room  just  now  my 
recollection  of  you  was  so  vivid ;  you  were  a  living 
whole  in  my  thoughts.  Now  I  am  engaged  in  gather 
ing  up  the  fragments — in  laboriously  reconstructing 
you  .... 

Oberville.  I  have  changed  so  much,  then? 

Isabel.  No,  I  don't  believe  that  you  *ve  changed.  It 's 

[  m] 


THE     TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

only  that  I  see  you  differently.  Don't  you  know  how 
hard  it  is  to  convince  elderly  people  that  the  type  of 
the  evening  paper  is  no  smaller  than  when  they  were 
young  ? 

Oberville.  I  've  shrunk  then  ? 

Isabel.  You  could  n't  have  grown  bigger.  Oh,  I  'm 
serious  now ;  you  need  n't  prepare  a  smile.  For  years 
you  were  the  tallest  object  on  my  horizon.  I  used  to 
climb  to  the  thought  of  you,  as  people  who  live  in  a 
flat  country  mount  the  church  steeple  for  a  view.  It's 
wonderful  how  much  I  used  to  see  from  there !  And 
the  air  was  so  strong  and  pure! 

Oberville.  And  now? 

Isabel.  Now  I  can  fancy  how  delightful  it  must  be 
to  sit  next  to  you  at  dinner. 

Oberville.  You're  unmerciful.  Have  I  said  anything 
to  offend  you  ? 

Isabel.  Of  course  not.  How  absurd! 

Oberville.  I  lost  my  head  a  little — I  forgot  how  long 
it  is  since  we  have  met.  When  I  saw  you  I  forgot 
everything  except  what  you  had  once  been  to  me. 
(She  is  silent.}  I  thought  you  too  generous  to  resent 
that.  Perhaps  I  have  overtaxed  your  generosity.  (A 
pause.)  Shall  I  confess  it?  When  I  first  saw  you  I 
thought  for  a  moment  that  you  had  remembered — as 
I  had.  You  see  I  can  only  excuse  myself  by  saying 
something  inexcusable. 

[175] 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE    GOD 

Isabel  (deliberately).  Not  inexcusable. 

Oberville.  Not—? 

Isabel.  I  had  remembered. 

Oberville.  Isabel! 

Isabel.  But  now — 

Oberville.  Ah,  give  me  a  moment  before  you  unsay 
it! 

Isabel.  I  don't  mean  to  unsay  it.  There's  no  use  in 
repealing  an  obsolete  law.  That 's  the  pity  of  it !  You 
say  you  lost  me  ten  years  ago.  (A  pause.)  I  never  lost 
you  till  now. 

Oberville.  Now? 

Isabel.  Only  this  morning  you  were  my  supreme 
court  of  justice ;  there  was  no  appeal  from  your  ver 
dict.  Not  an  hour  ago  you  decided  a  case  for  me — 
against  myself!  And  now — .  And  the  worst  of  it  is 
that  it 's  not  because  you'  ve  changed.  How  do  I 
know  if  you  've  changed  ?  You  have  n't  said  a  hun 
dred  words  to  me.  You  haven't  been  an  hour  in  the 
room.  And  the  years  must  have  enriched  you — I 
daresay  you've  doubled  your  capital.  You've  been 
in  the  thick  of  life,  and  the  metal  you're  made 
of  brightens  with  use.  Success  on  some  men  looks 
like  a  borrowed  coat ;  it  sits  on  you  as  though  it 
had  been  made  to  order.  I  see  all  this ;  I  know  it ; 
but  I  don't  feel  it.  I  don't  feel  anything  .  .  .  any 
where  ...  I'm  numb.  (A  pause.)  Don't  laugh,  but 
[176] 


THE     TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

I  really  don't  think  I  should  know  now  if  you  came 
into  the  room — unless  I  actually  saw  you.  ( They  are 
both  silent.) 

Oberville  (at  length ).  Then,  to  put  the  most  merci 
ful  interpretation  upon  your  epigrams,  your  feeling  for 
me  was  made  out  of  poorer  stuff  than  mine  for  you. 

Isabel.  Perhaps  it  has  had  harder  wear. 

Oberville.  Or  been  less  cared  for? 

Isabel.  If  one  has  only  one  cloak  one  must  wear  it 
in  all  weathers. 

Oberville.  Unless  it  is  so  beautiful  and  precious  that 
one  prefers  to  go  cold  and  keep  it  under  lock  and  key. 

Isabel.  In  the  cedar-chest  of  indifference — the  key 
of  which  is  usually  lost. 

Oberville.  Ah,  Isabel,  you're  too  pat!  How  much  I 
preferred  your  hesitations. 

Isabel.  My  hesitations  ?  That  reminds  me  how  much 
your  coming  has  simplified  things.  I  feel  as  if  I  'd  had 
an  auction  sale  of  fallacies. 

Oberville.  You  speak  in  enigmas,  and  I  have  a  notion 
that  your  riddles  are  the  reverse  of  the  sphinx's — more 
dangerous  to  guess  than  to  give  up.  And  yet  I  used 
to  find  your  thoughts  such  good  reading. 

Isabel.  One  cares  so  little  for  the  style  in  which 
one's  praises  are  written. 

Oberville.  You  've  been  praising  me  for  the  last  ten 
minutes  and  I  find  your  style  detestable.  I  would 
[177] 


THE    TWILIGHT    OF    THE    GOD 

rather  have  you  find  fault  with  me  like  a  friend  than 
approve  me  like  a  dilettante. 

Isabel.  A  dilettante!  The  very  word  I  wanted! 

Oberville.  I  am  proud  to  have  enriched  so  full  a 
vocabulary.  But  I  am  still  waiting  for  the  word  1 
want.  (He  grows  serious.)  Isabel,  look  in  your  heart 
— give  me  the  first  word  you  find  there.  You've  no 
idea  how  much  a  beggar  can  buy  with  a  penny! 

Isabel.  It's  empty,  my  poor  friend,  it's  empty. 

Oberville.  Beggars  never  say  that  to  each  other. 

Isabel.  No ;  never,  unless  it 's  true. 

Oberville  (after  another  silence).  Why  do  you  look 
at  me  so  curiously? 

Isabel.  I  'm — what  was  it  you  said  ?  Approving  you 
as  a  dilettante.  Don't  be  alarmed ;  you  can  bear  ex 
amination  ;  I  don't  see  a  crack  anywhere.  After  all, 
it's  a  satisfaction  to  find  that  one's  idol  makes  a 
handsome  bibelot. 

Oberville  (with  an  attempt  at  lightness).  I  was  right 
then — you're  a  collector? 

Isabel  (modestly).  One  must  make  a  beginning.  I 
think  I  shall  begin  with  you.  (She  smiles  at  him.)  Posi 
tively,  I  must  have  you  on  my  mantel-shelf !  ( She  rises 
and  looks  at  the  clock.)  But  it 's  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 
(She  holds  out  her  hand  to  him  and  he  kisses  it.  They  look 
at  each  other,  and  it  is  clear  that  he  does  not  quite  under" 
stand,  but  is  watching  eagerly  for  his  cue.) 
[  "8  ] 


THE     TWILIGHT     OF    THE     GOD 

War  land  (coming  in}.  Hullo,  Isabel — you're  here 
after  all? 

Isabel.  And  so  is  Mr.  Oberville.  ( She  looks  straight  at 
Warland.)  I  stayed  in  on  purpose  to  meet  him.  My 
husband — (The  two  men  bow.) 

Warland  (effusively).  So  glad  to  meet  you.  My  wife 
talks  of  you  so  often.  She 's  been  looking  forward  tre 
mendously  to  your  visit. 

Oberville.  It 's  a  long  time  since  I  've  had  the  pleas 
ure  of  seeing  Mrs.  Warland. 

Isabel.  But  now  we  are  going  to  make  up  for  lost 
time.  (As  he  goes  to  the  door.)  I  claim  you  to-morrow 
for  the  whole  day. 

Oberville  bows  and  goes  out. 

Isabel.  Lucius  ...  I  think  you  'd  better  go  to  Wash 
ington,  after  all.  (Musing.)  Narragansett  might  do  for 
the  others,  though.  .  .  .  Could  n't  you  get  Fred  Lang- 
ham  to  ask  all  the  rest  of  the  party  to  go  over  there 
with  him  to-morrow  morning  ?  I  shall  have  a  headache 
and  stay  at  home.  (He  looks  at  her  doubtfully.)  Mr.  Ober 
ville  is  a  bad  sailor. 

Warland  advances  demonstratively. 

Isabel  (drawing  back).  It's  time  to  go  and  dress.  I 
think  you  said  the  black  gown  with  spangles? 


[179] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

IT  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  cotil 
lion  was  at  its  height,  when  Woburn  left  the 
over-heated  splendor  of  the  Gildermere  ball 
room,  and  after  a  delay  caused  by  the  determination 
of  the  drowsy  footman  to  give  him  a  ready-made 
overcoat  with  an  imitation  astrachan  collar  in  place 
of  his  own  unimpeachable  Poole  garment,  found  him 
self  breasting  the  icy  solitude  of  the  Fifth  Avenue. 
He  was  still  smiling,  as  he  emerged  from  the  awn 
ing,  at  his  insistence  in  claiming  his  own  overcoat: 
it  illustrated,  humorously  enough,  the  invincible  force 
of  habit.  As  he  faced  the  wind,  however,  he  discerned 
a  providence  in  his  persistency,  for  his  coat  was  fur- 
lined,  and  he  had  a  cold  voyage  before  him  on  the 
morrow. 

It  had  rained  hard  during  the  earlier  part  of  the 
night,  and  the  carriages  waiting  in  triple  line  before 
the  Gildermeres'  door  were  still  domed  by  shining 
umbrellas,  while  the  electric  lamps  extending  down 
the  avenue  blinked  Narcissus-like  at  their  watery  im 
ages  in  the  hollows  of  the  sidewalk.  A  dry  blast  had 
come  out  of  the  north,  with  pledge  of  frost  before 
daylight,  and  to  Woburn's  shivering  fancy  the  pools 
in  the  pavement  seemed  already  stiffening  into  ice.  He 
[  183] 


A     CUP     OF     COLD     WATER 

turned  up  his  coat-collar  and  stepped  out  rapidly,  his 
hands  deep  in  his  coat-pockets. 

As  he  walked  he  glanced  curiously  up  at  the  ladder- 
like  door-steps  which  may  well  suggest  to  the  future 
archaeologist  that  all  the  streets  of  New  York  were 
once  canals ;  at  the  spectral  tracery  of  the  trees  about 
St.  Luke's,  the  fretted  mass  of  the  Cathedral,  and  the 
mean  vista  of  the  long  side-streets.  The  knowledge 
that  he  was  perhaps  looking  at  it  all  for  the  last  time 
caused  every  detail  to  start  out  like  a  challenge  to 
memory,  and  lit  the  brown-stone  house-fronts  with  the 
glamor  of  sword-barred  Edens. 

It  was  an  odd  impulse  that  had  led  him  that  night  to 
the  Gildermere  ball ;  but  the  same  change  in  his  condi 
tion  which  made  him  stare  wonderingly  at  the  houses  in 
the  Fifth  Avenue  gave  the  thrill  of  an  exploit  to  the 
tame  business  of  ball-going.  Who  would  have  imagined, 
Woburn  mused,  that  such  a  situation  as  his  would  pos 
sess  the  priceless  quality  of  sharpening  the  blunt  edge 
of  habit? 

It  was  certainly  curious  to  reflect,  as  he  leaned 
against  the  doorway  of  Mrs.  Gildermere's  ball-room, 
enveloped  in  the  warm  atmosphere  of  the  accustomed, 
that  twenty-four  hours  later  the  people  brushing  by 
him  with  looks  of  friendly  recognition  would  start  at 
the  thought  of  having  seen  him  and  slur  over  the 
recollection  of  having  taken  his  hand  ! 
[184] 


A     CUP    OF     COLD     WATER 

And  the  girl  he  had  gone  there  to  see :  what  would 
she  think  of  him?  He  knew  well  enough  that  her 
trenchant  classifications  of  life  admitted  no  overlapping 
of  good  and  evil,  made  no  allowance  for  that  incalcul 
able  interplay  of  motives  that  justifies  the  subtlest 
casuistry  of  compassion.  Miss  Talcott  was  too  young 
to  distinguish  the  intermediate  tints  of  the  moral 
spectrum ;  and  her  judgments  were  further  simplified 
by  a  peculiar  concreteness  of  mind.  Her  bringing-up 
had  fostered  this  tendency  and  she  was  surrounded 
by  people  who  focussed  life  in  the  same  way.  To 
the  girls  in  Miss  Talcott's  set,  the  attentions  of  a 
clever  man  who  had  to  work  for  his  living  had  the 
zest  of  a  forbidden  pleasure ;  but  to  marry  such  a 
man  would  be  as  unpardonable  as  to  have  one's  car 
riage  seen  at  the  door  of  a  cheap  dress-maker.  Poverty 
might  make  a  man  fascinating;  but  a  settled  income 
was  the  best  evidence  of  stability  of  character.  If  there 
were  anything  in  heredity,  how  could  a  nice  girl  trust 
a  man  whose  parents  had  been  careless  enough  to 
leave  him  unprovided  for? 

Neither  Miss  Talcott  nor  any  of  her  friends  could  be 
charged  with  formulating  these  views ;  but  they  were 
implicit  in  the  slope  of  every  white  shoulder  and  in  the 
ripple  of  every  yard  of  imported  tulle  dappling  the 
foreground  of  Mrs.  Gildermere's  ball-room.  The  ad 
vantages  of  line  and  colour  in  veiling  the  crudities  of 
[  185  ] 


A     CUP     OF     COLD     WATER 

a  creed  are  obvious  to  emotional  minds ;  and  besides, 
Woburn  was  conscious  that  it  was  to  the  cheerful 
materialism  of  their  parents  that  the  young  girls  he 
admired  owed  that  fine  distinction  of  outline  in  which 
their  skilfully-rippled  hair  and  skilfully-hung  draperies 
cooperated  with  the  slimness  and  erectness  that  came 
of  participating  in  the  most  expensive  sports,  eating 
the  most  expensive  food  and  breathing  the  most  ex 
pensive  air.  Since  the  process  which  had  produced 
them  was  so  costly,  how  could  they  help  being  costly 
themselves  ?  Woburn  was  too  logical  to  expect  to  give 
no  more  for  a  piece  of  old  Sevres  than  for  a  bit  of 
kitchen  crockery;  he  had  no  faith  in  wonderful  bar 
gains,  and  believed  that  one  got  in  life  just  what  one 
was  willing  to  pay  for.  He  had  no  mind  to  dispute 
the  taste  of  those  who  preferred  the  rustic  simplicity 
of  the  earthen  crock;  but  his  own  fancy  inclined  to 
the  piece  of  pate  tendre  which  must  be  kept  in  a 
glass  case  and  handled  as  delicately  as  a  flower. 

It  was  not  merely  by  the  external  grace  of  these 
drawing-room  ornaments  that  Woburn' s  sensibilities 
were  charmed.  His  imagination  was  touched  by  the 
curious  exoticism  of  view  resulting  from  such  condi 
tions.  He  had  always  enjoyed  listening  to  Miss  Talcott 
even  more  than  looking  at  her.  Her  ideas  had  the 
brilliant  bloom  and  audacious  irrelevance  of  those  trop 
ical  orchids  which  strike  root  in  air.  Miss  Talcott's 
[186] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

opinions  had  no  connection  with  the  actual ;  her  very 
materialism  had  the  grace  of  artificiality.  Woburn  had 
been  enchanted  once  by  seeing  her  helpless  before  a 
smoking  lamp :  she  had  been  obliged  to  ring  for  a  ser 
vant  because  she  did  not  know  how  to  put  it  out. 

Her  supreme  charm  was  the  simplicity  that  comes 
of  taking  it  for  granted  that  people  are  born  with  car 
riages  and  country-places :  it  never  occurred  to  her 
that  such  congenital  attributes  could  be  matter  for  self- 
consciousness,  and  she  had  none  of  the  nouveau  riche 
prudery  which  classes  poverty  with  the  nude  in  art 
and  is  not  sure  how  to  behave  in  the  presence  of 
either. 

The  conditions  of  Woburn's  own  life  had  made  him 
peculiarly  susceptible  to  those  forms  of  elegance  which 
are  the  flower  of  ease.  His  father  had  lost  a  comfortable 
property  through  sheer  inability  to  go  over  his  agent's 
accounts ;  and  this  disaster,  coming  at  the  outset  of 
Woburn's  school-days,  had  given  a  new  bent  to  the 
family  temperament.  The  father  characteristically  died 
when  the  effort  of  living  might  have  made  it  possible 
to  retrieve  his  fortunes ;  and  Woburn's  mother  and 
sister,  embittered  by  this  final  evasion,  settled  down 
to  a  vindictive  war  with  circumstances.  They  were  the 
kind  of  women  who  think  that  it  lightens  the  burden 
of  life  to  throw  over  the  amenities,  as  a  reduced  house 
keeper  puts  away  her  knick-knacks  to  make  the  dust- 
[187] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

ing  easier.  They  fought  mean  conditions  meanly;  but 
Woburn,  in  his  resentment  of  their  attitude,  did  not 
allow  for  the  suffering  which  had  brought  it  about : 
his  own  tendency  was  to  overcome  difficulties  by 
conciliation  rather  than  by  conflict.  Such  surround 
ings  threw  into  vivid  relief  the  charming  figure  of 
Miss  Talcott.  Woburn  instinctively  associated  poverty 
with  bad  food,  ugly  furniture,  complaints  and  recrimi 
nations  :  it  was  natural  that  he  should  be  drawn  to 
ward  the  luminous  atmosphere  where  life  was  a  series 
of  peaceful  and  good-humored  acts,  unimpeded  by 
petty  obstacles.  To  spend  one's  time  in  such  society 
gave  one  the  illusion  of  unlimited  credit;  and  also, 
unhappily,  created  the  need  for  it. 

It  was  here  in  fact  that  Woburn's  difficulties  began. 
To  marry  Miss  Talcott  it  was  necessary  to  be  a  rich 
man :  even  to  dine  out  in  her  set  involved  certain 
minor  extravagances.  Woburn  had  determined  to  marry 
her  sooner  or  later ;  and  in  the  meanwhile  to  be  with 
her  as  much  as  possible. 

As  he  stood  leaning  in  the  doorway  of  the  Gilder- 
mere  ball-room,  watching  her  pass  him  in  the  waltz, 
he  tried  to  remember  how  it  had  begun.  First  there 
had  been  the  tailor's  bill ;  the  fur-lined  overcoat  with 
cuffs  and  collar  of  Alaska  sable  had  alone  cost  more 
than  he  had  spent  on  his  clothes  for  two  or  three  years 
previously.  Then  there  were  theatre-tickets ;  cab-fares ; 

[  188] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

florist's  bills ;  tips  to  servants  at  the  country-houses 
where  he  went  because  he  knew  that  she  was  invited ; 
the  Omar  Khayyam  bound  by  Sullivan  that  he  sent 
her  at  Christmas ;  the  contributions  to  her  pet  chari 
ties  ;  the  reckless  purchases  at  fairs  where  she  had  a 
stall.  His  whole  way  of  life  had  imperceptibly  changed 
and  his  year's  salary  was  gone  before  the  second  quar 
ter  was  due. 

He  had  invested  the  few  thousand  dollars  which  had 
been  his  portion  of  his  father's  shrunken  estate :  when 
his  debts  began  to  pile  up,  he  took  a  flyer  in  stocks 
and  after  a  few  months  of  varying  luck  his  little  patri 
mony  disappeared.  Meanwhile  his  courtship  was  pro 
ceeding  at  an  inverse  ratio  to  his  financial  ventures. 
Miss  Talcott  was  growing  tender  and  he  began  to  feel 
that  the  game  was  in  his  hands.  The  nearness  of  the 
goal  exasperated  him.  She  was  not  the  girl  to  wait 
and  he  knew  that  it  must  be  now  or  never.  A  friend 
lent  him  five  thousand  dollars  on  his  personal  note 
and  he  bought  railway  stocks  on  margin.  They  went 
up  and  he  held  them  for  a  higher  rise :  they  fluctu 
ated,  dragged,  dropped  below  the  level  at  which  he 
had  bought,  and  slowly  continued  their  uninterrupted 
descent.  His  broker  called  for  more  margin ;  he  could 
not  respond  and  was  sold  out. 

What  followed  came  about  quite  naturally.  For 
several  years  he  had  been  cashier  in  a  well-known 
[  189] 


A     CUP     OF     COLD    WATER 

banking-house.  When  the  note  he  had  given  his 
friend  became  due  it  was  obviously  necessary  to  pay 
it  and  he  used  the  firm's  money  for  the  purpose.  To 
repay  the  money  thus  taken,  he  increased  his  debt  to 
his  employers  and  bought  more  stocks ;  and  on  these 
operations  he  made  a  profit  of  ten  thousand  dollars. 
Miss  Talcott  rode  in  the  Park,  and  he  bought  a 
smart  hack  for  seven  hundred,  paid  off  his  trades 
men,  and  went  on  speculating  with  the  remainder  of 
his  profits.  He  made  a  little  more,  but  failed  to  take 
advantage  of  the  market  and  lost  all  that  he  had 
staked,  including  the  amount  taken  from  the  firm. 
He  increased  his  over-draft  by  another  ten  thousand 
and  lost  that;  he  over-drew  a  farther  sum  and  lost 
again.  Suddenly  he  woke  to  the  fact  that  he  owed 
his  employers  fifty  thousand  dollars  and  that  the 
partners  were  to  make  their  semi-annual  inspection 
in  two  days.  He  realized  then  that  within  forty-eight 
hours  what  he  had  called  borrowing  would  become 
theft. 

There  was  no  time  to  be  lost :  he  must  clear  out  and 
start  life  over  again  somewhere  else.  The  day  that  he 
reached  this  decision  he  was  to  have  met  Miss  Talcott 
at  dinner.  He  went  to  the  dinner,  but  she  did  not  ap 
pear  :  she  had  a  headache,  his  hostess  explained.  Well, 
he  was  not  to  have  a  last  look  at  her,  after  all ;  better 
so,  perhaps.  He  took  leave  early  and  on  his  way  home 

[  W] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

stopped  at  a  florist's  and  sent  her  a  bunch  of  violets. 
The  next  morning  he  got  a  little  note  from  her:  the 
violets  had  done  her  head  so  much  good — she  would 
tell  him  all  about  it  that  evening  at  the  Gildermere 
ball.  Woburn  laughed  and  tossed  the  note  into  the  fire. 
That  evening  he  would  be  on  board  ship :  the  exami 
nation  of  the  books  was  to  take  place  the  following 
morning  at  ten. 

Woburn  went  down  to  the  bank  as  usual ;  he  did 
not  want  to  do  anything  that  might  excite  suspicion 
as  to  his  plans,  and  from  one  or  two  questions  which 
one  of  the  partners  had  lately  put  to  him  he  divined 
that  he  was  being  observed.  At  the  bank  the  day 
passed  uneventfully.  He  discharged  his  business  with 
his  accustomed  care  and  went  uptown  at  the  usual  hour. 

In  the  first  flush  of  his  successful  speculations  he 
had  set  up  bachelor  lodgings,  moved  by  the  tempta 
tion  to  get  away  from  the  dismal  atmosphere  of  home, 
from  his  mother's  struggles  with  the  cook  and  his  sis 
ter's  curiosity  about  his  letters.  He  had  been  influenced 
also  by  the  wish  for  surroundings  more  adapted  to  his 
tastes.  He  wanted  to  be  able  to  give  little  teas,  to 
which  Miss  Talcott  might  come  with  a  married  friend. 
She  came  once  or  twice  arid  pronounced  it  all  delight 
ful  :  she  thought  it  so  nice  to  have  only  a  few  Whistler 
etchings  on  the  walls  and  the  simplest  crushed  levant 
for  all  one's  books. 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

To  these  rooms  Woburn  returned  on  leaving  the 
bank.  His  plans  had  taken  definite  shape.  He  had  en 
gaged  passage  on  a  steamer  sailing  for  Halifax  early 
the  next  morning ;  and  there  was  nothing  for  him  to 
do  before  going  on  board  but  to  pack  his  clothes  and 
tear  up  a  few  letters.  He  threw  his  clothes  into  a 
couple  of  portmanteaux,  and  when  these  had  been 
called  for  by  an  expressman  he  emptied  his  pockets 
and  counted  up  his  ready  money.  He  found  that  he 
possessed  just  fifty  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents ;  but 
his  passage  to  Halifax  was  paid,  and  once  there  he 
could  pawn  his  watch  and  rings.  This  calculation  com 
pleted,  he  unlocked  his  writing-table  drawer  and  took 
out  a  handful  of  letters.  They  were  notes  from  Miss 
Talcott.  He  read  them  over  and  threw  them  into  the 
fire.  On  his  table  stood  her  photograph.  He  slipped  it 
out  of  its  frame  and  tossed  it  on  top  of  the  blazing 
letters.  Having  performed  this  rite,  he  got  into  his 
dress-clothes  and  went  to  a  small  French  restaurant 
to  dine. 

He  had  meant  to  go  on  board  the  steamer  immedi 
ately  after  dinner ;  but  a  sudden  vision  of  introspective 
hours  in  a  silent  cabin  made  him  call  for  the  evening 
paper  and  run  his  eye  over  the  list  of  theatres.  It 
would  be  as  easy  to  go  on  board  at  midnight  as  now. 

He  selected  a  new  vaudeville  and  listened  to  it  with 
surprising  freshness  of  interest ;  but  toward  eleven 

[  192] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

o'clock  he  again  began  to  dread  the  approaching  ne 
cessity  of  going  down  to  the  steamer.  There  was  some 
thing  peculiarly  unnerving  in  the  idea  of  spending 
the  rest  of  the  night  in  a  stifling  cabin  jammed  against 
the  side  of  a  wharf. 

He  left  the  theatre  and  strolled  across  to  the  Fifth 
Avenue.  It  was  now  nearly  midnight  and  a  stream  of 
carriages  poured  up  town  from  the  opera  and  the 
theatres.  As  he  stood  on  the  corner  watching  the  fa 
miliar  spectacle  it  occurred  to  him  that  many  of  the 
people  driving  by  him  in  smart  broughams  and 
C-spring  landaus  were  on  their  way  to  the  Gildermere 
ball.  He  remembered  Miss  Talcott's  note  of  the  morn 
ing  and  wondered  if  she  were  in  one  of  the  passing 
carriages ;  she  had  spoken  so  confidently  of  meeting 
him  at  the  ball.  What  if  he  should  go  and  take  a  last 
look  at  her?  There  was  really  nothing  to  prevent  it. 
He  was  not  likely  to  run  across  any  member  of  the 
firm :  in  Miss  Talcott's  set  his  social  standing  was  good 
for  another  ten  hours  at  least.  He  smiled  in  anticipa 
tion  of  her  surprise  at  seeing  him,  and  then  reflected 
with  a  start  that  she  would  not  be  surprised  at  all. 

His  meditations  were  cut  short  by  a  fall  of  sleety 
rain,  and  hailing  a  hansom  he  gave  the  driver  Mrs. 
Gildermere' s  address. 

As  he  drove  up  the  avenue  he  looked  about  him  like 
a  traveller  in  a  strange  city.  The  buildings  which  had 
[  193] 


A     CUP     OF     COLD     WATER 

been  so  unobtrusively  familiar  stood  out  with  sudden 
distinctness :  he  noticed  a  hundred  details  which  had 
escaped  his  observation.  The  people  on  the  sidewalks 
looked  like  strangers :  he  wondered  where  they  were 
going  and  tried  to  picture  the  lives  they  led ;  but  his 
own  relation  to  life  had  been  so  suddenly  reversed  that 
he  found  it  impossible  to  recover  his  mental  perspec 
tive. 

At  one  corner  he  saw  a  shabby  man  lurking  in  the 
shadow  of  the  side  street ;  as  the  hansom  passed,  a 
policeman  ordered  him  to  move  on.  Farther  on,  Wo- 
burn  noticed  a  woman  crouching  on  the  door-step  of  a 
handsome  house.  She  had  drawn  a  shawl  over  her  head 
and  was  sunk  in  the  apathy  of  despair  or  drink.  A  well- 
dressed  couple  paused  to  look  at  her.  The  electric 
globe  at  the  corner  lit  up  their  faces,  and  Woburn  saw 
the  lady,  who  was  young  and  pretty,  turn  away  with 
a  little  grimace,  drawing  her  companion  after  her. 

The  desire  to  see  Miss  Talcott  had  driven  Woburn 
to  the  Gildermeres' ;  but  once  in  the  ball-room  he 
made  no  effort  to  find  her.  The  people  about  him 
seemed  more  like  strangers  than  those  he  had  passed 
in  the  street.  He  stood  in  the  doorway,  studying  the 
petty  manoeuvres  of  the  women  and  the  resigned  amen 
ities  of  their  partners.  Was  it  possible  that  these  were 
his  friends  ?  These  mincing  women,  all  paint  and  dye 
and  whalebone,  these  apathetic  men  who  looked  as 
[  19*] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

much  alike  as  the  figures  that  children  cut  out  of  a 
folded  sheet  of  paper  ?  Was  it  to  live  among  such  pup 
pets  that  he  had  sold  his  soul  ?  What  had  any  of  these 
people  done  that  was  noble,  exceptional,  distinguished  ? 
Who  knew  them  by  name  even,  except  their  trades 
men  and  the  society  reporters?  Who  were  they,  that 
they  should  sit  in  judgment  on  him? 

The  bald  man  with  the  globular  stomach,  who 
stood  at  Mrs.  Gildermere's  elbow  surveying  the  dan 
cers,  was  old  Boylston,  who  had  made  his  pile  in 
wrecking  railroads ;  the  smooth  chap  with  glazed  eyes, 
at  whom  a  pretty  girl  smiled  up  so  confidingly,  was 
Collerton,  the  political  lawyer,  who  had  been  mixed 
up  to  his  own  advantage  in  an  ugly  lobbying  trans 
action  ;  near  him  stood  Brice  Lyndham,  whose  recent 
failure  had  ruined  his  friends  and  associates,  but  had 
not  visibly  affected  the  welfare  of  his  large  and  ex 
pensive  family.  The  slim  fellow  dancing  with  Miss 
Gildermere  was  Alec  Vance,  who  lived  on  a  salary  of 
five  thousand  a  year,  but  whose  wife  was  such  a  good 
manager  that  they  kept  a  brougham  and  victoria  and 
always  put  in  their  season  at  Newport  and  their  spring 
trip  to  Europe.  The  little  ferret-faced  youth  in  the 
corner  was  Regie  Colby,  who  wrote  the  Entre-Nous 
paragraphs  in  the  Social  Searchlight :  the  women  were 
charming  to  him  and  he  got  all  the  financial  tips  he 
wanted  from  their  husbands  and  fathers. 
[195] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

And  the  women?  Well,  the  women  knew  all  about 
the  men,  and  flattered  them  and  married  them  and 
tried  to  catch  them  for  their  daughters.  It  was  a 
domino-party  at  which  the  guests  were  forbidden  to 
unmask,  though  they  all  saw  through  each  other's 
disguises. 

And  these  were  the  people  who,  within  twenty-four 
hours,  would  be  agreeing  that  they  had  always  felt 
there  was  something  wrong  about  Woburn !  They 
would  be  extremely  sorry  for  him,  of  course,  poor 
devil ;  but  there  are  certain  standards,  after  all — 
what  would  society  be  without  standards?  His  new 
friends,  his  future  associates,  were  the  suspicious-look 
ing  man  whom  the  policeman  had  ordered  to  move 
on,  and  the  drunken  woman  asleep  on  the  door-step. 
To  these  he  was  linked  by  the  freemasonry  of  failure. 

Miss  Talcott  passed  him  on  Collerton's  arm :  she  was 
giving  him  one  of  the  smiles  of  which  Woburn  had 
fancied  himself  sole  owner.  Collerton  was  a  sharp  fel 
low  ;  he  must  have  made  a  lot  in  that  last  deal ;  prob 
ably  she  would  marry  him.  How  much  did  she  know 
about  the  transaction?  She  was  a  shrewd  girl  and 
her  father  was  in  Wall  Street.  If  Woburn's  luck  had 
turned  the  other  way  she  might  have  married  him 
instead;  and  if  he  had  confessed  his  sin  to  her  one 
evening,  as  they  drove  home  from  the  opera  in  their 
new  brougham,  she  would  have  said  that  really  it  was 
[  196] 


A     CUP     OF    COLD    WATER 

of  no  use  to  tell  her,  for  she  never  could  understand 
about  business,  but  that  she  did  entreat  him  in  fu 
ture  to  be  nicer  to  Regie  Colby.  Even  now,  if  he 
made  a  big  strike  somewhere,  and  came  back  in  ten 
years  with  a  beard  and  a  steam  yacht,  they  would  all 
deny  that  anything  had  been  proved  against  him,  and 
Mrs.  Collerton  might  blush  and  remind  him  of  their 
friendship.  Well — why  not?  Was  not  all  morality 
based  on  a  convention?  What  was  the  stanchest  code 
of  ethics  but  a  trunk  with  a  series  of  false  bottoms? 
Now  and  then  one  had  the  illusion  of  getting  down 
to  absolute  right  or  wrong,  but  it  was  only  a  false 
bottom — a  removable  hypothesis — with  another  false 
bottom  underneath.  There  was  no  getting  beyond  the 
relative. 

The  cotillion  had  begun.  Miss  Talcott  sat  nearly 
opposite  him :  she  was  dancing  with  young  Boylston 
and  giving  him  a  Woburn-Collerton  smile.  So  young 
Boylston  was  in  the  syndicate  too ! 

Presently  Woburn  was  aware  that  she  had  forgotten 
young  Boylston  and  was  glancing  absently  about  the 
room.  She  was  looking  for  some  one,  and  meant  the 
some  one  to  know  it :  he  knew  that  Lost-Chord  look 
in  her  eyes. 

A  new  figure  was  being  formed.  The  partners  circled 
about  the  room  and  Miss  Talcott 's  flying  tulle  drifted 
close  to  him  as  she  passed.  Then  the  favors  were  dis- 
.[  W  ] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

tributed;  white  skirts  wavered  across  the  floor  like 
thistle-down  on  summer  air ;  men  rose  from  their  seats 
and  fresh  couples  filled  the  shining  parquet. 

Miss  Talcott,  after  taking  from  the  basket  a  Legion 
of  Honor  in  red  enamel,  surveyed  the  room  for  a  mo 
ment  ;  then  she  made  her  way  through  the  dancers 
and  held  out  the  favor  to  Woburn.  He  fastened  it  in 
his  coat,  and  emerging  from  the  crowd  of  men  about 
the  doorway,  slipped  his  arm  about  her.  Their  eyes 
met ;  hers  were  serious  and  a  little  sad.  How  fine  and 
slender  she  was !  He  noticed  the  little  tendrils  of  hair 
about  the  pink  convolution  of  her  ear.  Her  waist  was 
firm  and  yet  elastic ;  she  breathed  calmly  and  regu 
larly,  as  though  dancing  were  her  natural  motion.  She 
did  not  look  at  him  again  and  neither  of  them  spoke. 

When  the  music  ceased  they  paused  near  her  chair. 
Her  partner  was  waiting  for  her  and  Woburn  left  her 
with  a  bow. 

He  made  his  way  down-stairs  and  out  of  the  house. 
He  was  glad  that  he  had  not  spoken  to  Miss  Talcott. 
There  had  been  a  healing  power  in  their  silence.  All 
bitterness  had  gone  from  him  and  he  thought  of  her 
now  quite  simply,  as  the  girl  he  loved. 

At  Thirty-fifth  Street  he  reflected  that  he  had 
better  jump  into  a  car  and  go  down  to  his  steamer. 
Again  there  rose  before  him  the  repulsive  vision  of  the 
dark  cabin,  with  creaking  noises  overhead,  and  the  cold 

[  W] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD     WATER 

wash  of  water  against  the  pier:  he  thought  he  would 
stop  in  a  cafe  and  take  a  drink.  He  turned  into  Broad 
way  and  entered  a  brightly-lit  cafe ;  but  when  he  had 
taken  his  whisky  and  soda  there  seemed  no  reason  for 
lingering.  He  had  never  been  the  kind  of  man  who 
could  escape  difficulties  in  that  way.  Yet  he  was  con 
scious  that  his  will  was  weakening ;  that  he  did  not 
mean  to  go  down  to  the  steamer  just  yet.  What  did 
he  mean  to  do  ?  He  began  to  feel  horribly  tired  and 
it  occurred  to  him  that  a  few  hours'  sleep  in  a  decent 
bed  would  make  a  new  man  of  him.  Why  not  go  on 
board  the  next  morning  at  daylight? 

He  could  not  go  back  to  his  rooms,  for  on  leaving 
the  house  he  had  taken  the  precaution  of  dropping  his 
latch-key  into  his  letter-box ;  but  he  was  in  a  neigh 
borhood  of  discreet  hotels  and  he  wandered  on  till  he 
came  to  one  which  was  known  to  offer  a  dispassionate 
hospitality  to  luggageless  travellers  in  dress-clothes. 

II 

HE   pushed   open   the  swinging  door   and   found 
himself  in   a   long   corridor  with    a  tessellated 
floor,  at  the  end  of  which,  in  a  brightly-lit  enclosure 
of  plate-glass   and   mahogany,  the   night-clerk  dozed 
over  a  copy  of  the  Police  Gazette.  The  air  in  the  corri 
dor  was  rich  in  reminiscences  of  yesterday's  dinners, 
[  199] 


A     CUP     OF     COLD     WATER 

and  a  bronzed  radiator  poured  a  wave  of  dry  heat  into 
Woburn's  face. 

The  night-clerk,  roused  by  the  swinging  of  the  door, 
sat  watching  Woburn's  approach  with  the  unexpectant 
eye  of  one  who  has  full  confidence  in  his  capacity  for 
digesting  surprises.  Not  that  there  was  anything  sur 
prising  in  Woburn's  appearance ;  but  the  night-clerk's 
callers  were  given  to  such  imaginative  flights  in  ex 
plaining  their  luggageless  arrival  in  the  small  hours  of 
the  morning,  that  he  fared  habitually  on  fictions  which 
would  have  staggered  a  less  experienced  stomach.  The 
night-clerk,  whose  unwrinkled  bloom  showed  that  he 
throve  on  this  high-seasoned  diet,  had  a  fancy  for  clas 
sifying  his  applicants  before  they  could  frame  their 
explanations. 

"This  one  's  been  locked  out,"  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  mustered  Wobum. 

Having  exercised  his  powers  of  divination  with  his 
accustomed  accuracy  he  listened  without  stirring  an 
eye-lid  to  Woburn's  statement ;  merely  replying,  when 
the  latter  asked  the  price  of  a  room,  "Two-fifty." 

"Very  well,"  said  Woburn,  pushing  the  money  un 
der  the  brass  lattice,  "  I  '11  go  up  at  once ;  and  I  want 
to  be  called  at  seven." 

To    this    the    night-clerk    proffered    no    reply,    but 
stretching  out  his  hand  to  press  an  electric  button,  re 
turned  apathetically  to  the  perusal  of  the  Police  Gazette. 
[  200  ] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

His  summons  was  answered  by  the  appearance  of  a  man 
in  shirt-sleeves,  whose  rumpled  head  indicated  that  he 
had  recently  risen  from  some  kind  of  makeshift  repose  ; 
to  him  the  night-clerk  tossed  a  key,  with  the  brief 
comment,  "  Ninety-seven  ;  "  and  the  man,  after  a  sleepy 
glance  at  Woburn,  turned  on  his  heel  and  lounged 
toward  the  staircase  at  the  back  of  the  corridor. 

Woburn  followed  and  they  climbed  three  flights  in 
silence.  At  each  landing  Woburn  glanced  down  the 
long  passage-way  lit  by  a  lowered  gas-jet,  with  a  double 
line  of  boots  before  the  doors,  waiting,  like  yesterday's 
deeds,  to  carry  their  owners  so  many  miles  farther  on 
the  morrow's  destined  road.  On  the  third  landing  the 
man  paused,  and  after  examining  the  number  on  the 
key,  turned  to  the  left,  and  slouching  past  three  or 
four  doors,  finally  unlocked  one  and  preceded  Woburn 
into  a  room  lit  only  by  the  upward  gleam  of  the  elec 
tric  globes  in  the  street  below. 

The  man  felt  in  his  pockets ;  then  he  turned  to 
Woburn.  "Got  a  match?"  he  asked. 

Woburn  politely  offered  him  one,  and  he  applied  it 
to  the  gas-fixture  which  extended  its  jointed  arm  above 
an  ash  dressing-table  with  a  blurred  mirror  fixed  be 
tween  two  standards.  Having  performed  this  office  with 
an  air  of  detachment  designed  to  make  Woburn  recog 
nize  it  as  an  act  of  supererogation,  he  turned  without 
a  word  and  vanished  down  the  passage-way. 
[201  ] 


A     CUP     OF    COLD     WATER 

Woburn,  after  an  indifferent  glance  about  the  room, 
which  seemed  to  afford  the  amount  of  luxury  generally 
obtainable  for  two  dollars  and  a  half  in  a  fashionable 
quarter  of  New  York,  locked  the  door  and  sat  down  at 
the  ink-stained  writing-table  in  the  window.  Far  below 
him  lay  the  pallidly-lit  depths  of  the  forsaken  thor 
oughfare.  Now  and  then  he  heard  the  jingle  of  a  horse- 
car  and  the  ring  of  hoofs  on  the  freezing  pavement,  or 
saw  the  lonely  figure  of  a  policeman  eclipsing  the 
illumination  of  the  plate-glass  windows  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street.  He  sat  thus  for  a  long  time,  his  el 
bows  on  the  table,  his  chin  between  his  hands,  till 
at  length  the  contemplation  of  the  abandoned  side 
walks,  above  which  the  electric  globes  kept  Stylites- 
like  vigil,  became  intolerable  to  him,  and  he  drew 
down  the  window-shade,  and  lit  the  gas-fixture  beside 
the  dressing-table.  Then  he  took  a  cigar  from  his  case, 
and  held  it  to  the  flame. 

The  passage  from  the  stinging  freshness  of  the  night 
to  the  stale  overheated  atmosphere  of  the  Haslemere 
Hotel  had  checked  the  preternaturally  rapid  working 
of  his  mind,  and  he  was  now  scarcely  conscious  of 
thinking  at  all.  His  head  was  heavy,  and  he  would 
have  thrown  himself  on  the  bed  had  he  not  feared  to 
oversleep  the  hour  fixed  for  his  departure.  He  thought 
it  safest,  instead,  to  seat  himself  once  more  by  the 
Uble,  in  the  most  uncomfortable  chair  that  he  could 
[  202  ] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

find,  and  smoke  one  cigar  after  another  till  the  first 
sign  of  dawn  should  give  an  excuse  for  action. 

He  had  laid  his  watch  on  the  table  before  him,  and 
was  gazing  at  the  hour-hand,  and  trying  to  convince 
himself  by  so  doing  that  he  was  still  wide  awake,  when 
a  noise  in  the  adjoining  room  suddenly  straightened 
him  in  his  chair  and  banished  all  fear  of  sleep. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  nature  of  the  noise ; 
it  was  that  of  a  woman's  sobs.  The  sobs  were  not  loud, 
but  the  sound  reached  him  distinctly  through  the  frail 
door  between  the  two  rooms ;  it  expressed  an  utter 
abandonment  to  grief;  not  the  cloud-burst  of  some 
passing  emotion,  but  the  slow  down-pour  of  a  whole 
heaven  of  sorrow. 

Woburn  sat  listening.  There  was  nothing  else  to  be 
done ;  and  at  least  his  listening  was  a  mute  tribute  to 
the  trouble  he  was  powerless  to  relieve.  It  roused,  toos 
the  drugged  pulses  of  his  own  grief:  he  was  touched 
by  the  chance  propinquity  of  two  alien  sorrows  in  a 
great  city  throbbing  with  multifarious  passions.  It 
would  have  been  more  in  keeping  with  the  irony  of 
life  had  he  found  himself  next  to  a  mother  singing 
her  child  to  sleep :  there  seemed  a  mute  commiseration 
in  the  hand  that  had  led  him  to  such  neighborhood. 

Gradually  the  sobs  subsided,  with  pauses  betokening 
an  effort  at  self-control.  At  last  they  died  off  softly, 
like  the  intermittent  drops  that  end  a  day  of  rain. 
[  203  ] 


A    CUP     OF     COLD    WATER 

"  Poor  soul,"  Woburn  mused,  "  she  's  got  the  better 
of  it  for  the  time.  I  wonder  what  it 's  all  about  ?  " 

At  the  same  moment  he  heard  another  sound  that 
made  him  jump  to  his  feet.  It  was  a  very  low  sound, 
but  in  that  nocturnal  silence  which  gives  distinctness 
to  the  faintest  noises,  Woburn  knew  at  once  that  he 
had  heard  the  click  of  a  pistol. 

"  What  is  she  up  to  now  ?  "  he  asked  himself,  with 
his  eye  on  the  door  between  the  two  rooms ;  and  the 
brightly -lit  keyhole  seemed  to  reply  with  a  glance  of 
intelligence.  He  turned  out  the  gas  and  crept  to  the 
door,  pressing  his  eye  to  the  illuminated  circle. 

After  a  moment  or  two  of  adjustment,  during  which 
he  seemed  to  himself  to  be  breathing  like  a  steam- 
engine,  he  discerned  a  room  like  his  own,  with  the 
same  dressing-table  flanked  by  gas-fixtures,  and  the 
same  table  in  the  window.  This  table  was  directly  in 
his  line  of  vision ;  and  beside  it  stood  a  woman  with  a 
small  revolver  in  her  hands.  The  lights  being  behind 
her,  Woburn  could  only  infer  her  youth  from  her  slen 
der  silhouette  and  the  nimbus  of  fair  hair  defining  her 
head.  Her  dress  seemed  dark  and  simple,  and  on  a 
chair  under  one  of  the  gas-jets  lay  a  jacket  edged 
with  cheap  fur  and  a  small  travelling-bag.  He  could 
not  see  the  other  end  of  the  room,  but  something  in 
her  manner  told  him  that  she  was  alone.  At  length 
she  put  the  revolver  down  and  took  up  a  letter  that 
[  204  ] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

lay  on  the  table.  She  drew  the  letter  from  its  envelope 
and  read  it  over  two  or  three  times ;  then  she  put  it 
back,  sealing  the  envelope,  and  placing  it  conspicu 
ously  against  the  mirror  of  the  dressing-table. 

There  was  so  grave  a  significance  in  this  dumb-show 
that  Woburn  felt  sure  that  her  next  act  would  be  to 
return  to  the  table  and  take  up  the  revolver;  but  he 
had  not  reckoned  on  the  vanity  of  woman.  After  put 
ting  the  letter  in  place  she  still  lingered  at  the  mirror, 
standing  a  little  sideways,  so  that  he  could  now  see 
her  face,  which  was  distinctly  pretty,  but  of  a  small 
and  unelastic  mould,  inadequate  to  the  expression  of 
the  larger  emotions.  For  some  moments  she  continued 
to  study  herself  with  the  expression  of  a  child  looking 
at  a  playmate  who  has  been  scolded ;  then  she  turned 
to  the  table  and  lifted  the  revolver  to  her  forehead. 

A  sudden  crash  made  her  arm  drop,  and  sent  her 
darting  backward  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  room. 
Woburn  had  broken  down  the  door,  and  stood  torn 
and  breathless  in  the  breach. 

"  Oh ! "  she  gasped,  pressing  closer  to  the  wall. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said;  "I  saw  what  you 
were  going  to  do  and  I  had  to  stop  you." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  he 
saw  the  terrified  flutter  of  her  breast ;  then  she  said, 
"  No  one  can  stop  me  for  long.  And  besides,  what  right 
have  you — " 

[205] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

"Every  one  has  the  right  to  prevent  a  crime,"  he 
returned,  the  sound  of  the  last  word  sending  the  blood 
to  his  forehead. 

"  I  deny  it,"  she  said  passionately.  "  Every  one  who 
has  tried  to  live  and  failed  has  the  right  to  die." 

"Failed  in  what?" 

"In  everything!"  she  replied.  They  stood  looking 
at  each  other  in  silence. 

At  length  he  advanced  a  few  steps. 

"You've  no  right  to  say  you've  failed,"  he  said, 
*  while  you  have  breath  to  try  again."  He  drew  the 
revolver  from  her  hand. 

"  Try  again — try  again  ?  I  tell  you  I  've  tried  seventy 
times  seven !" 

"What  have  you  tried?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  dignity. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "  that  you  've  any  right  to 
question  me — or  to  be  in  this  room  at  all — "  and  sud 
denly  she  burst  into  tears. 

The  discrepancy  between  her  words  and  action 
struck  the  chord  which,  in  a  man's  heart,  always 
responds  to  the  touch  of  feminine  unreason.  She 
dropped  into  the  nearest  chair,  hiding  her  face  in 
her  hands,  while  Woburn  watched  the  course  of  her 
weeping. 

At  last  she  lifted  her  head,  looking  up  between 
drenched  lashes. 

[206] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

(t  Please  go  away,"  she  said  in  childish  entreaty. 

"How  can  I?"  he  returned.  "It's  impossible  that 
I  should  leave  you  in  this  state.  Trust  me — let  me 
help  you.  Tell  me  what  has  gone  wrong,  and  let's 
see  if  there 's  no  other  way  out  of  it." 

Woburn  had  a  voice  full  of  sensitive  inflections,  and 
it  was  now  trembling  with  profoundest  pity.  Its  note 
seemed  to  reassure  the  girl,  for  she  said,  with  a  begin 
ning  of  confidence  in  her  own  tones,  "  But  I  don't  even 
know  who  you  are." 

Woburn  was  silent :  the  words  startled  him.  He 
moved  nearer  to  her  and  went  on  in  the  same  quiet 
ing  tone. 

"I  am  a  man  who  has  suffered  enough  to  want  to 
help  others.  I  don't  want  to  know  any  more  about  you 
than  will  enable  me  to  do  what  I  can  for  you.  I've 
probably  seen  more  of  life  than  you  have,  and  if  you  're 
willing  to  tell  me  your  troubles  perhaps  together  we 
may  find  a  way  out  of  them." 

She  dried  her  eyes  and  glanced  at  the  revolver. 

"That's  the  only  way  out,"  she  said. 

"How  do  you  know?  Are  you  sure  you've  tried 
every  other  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  sure.  I  've  written  and  written,  and  hum 
bled  myself  like  a  slave  before  him,  and  she  won't 
even  let  him  answer  my  letters.  Oh,  but  you  don't  un 
derstand" — she  broke  off  with  a  renewal  of  weeping. 
[  207  ] 


A     CUP    OF     COLD     WATER 

"  I  begin  to  understand — you  're  sorry  for  something 
you  've  done  ?  " 

"Oh,  I've  never  denied  that — I've  never  denied 
that  I  was  wicked." 

"And  you  want  the  forgiveness  of  some  one  you 
care  about  ? " 

"My  husband/'  she  whispered. 

"You've  done  something  to  displease  your  hus 
band  ?  " 

"  To  displease  him  ?  I  ran  away  with  another  man !  " 
There  was  a  dismal  exultation  in  her  tone,  as  though 
she  were  paying  Woburn  off  for  having  underrated 
her  offense. 

She  had  certainly  surprised  him ;  at  worst  he  had 
expected  a  quarrel  over  a  rival,  with  a  possible  com 
plication  of  mother-in-law.  He  wondered  how  such 
helpless  little  feet  could  have  taken  so  bold  a  step ; 
then  he  remembered  that  there  is  no  audacity  like 
that  of  weakness. 

He  was  wondering  how  to  lead  her  to  completer 
avowal  when  she  added  forlornly,  "  You  see  there 's 
nothing  else  to  do." 

Woburn  took  a  turn  in  the  room.  It  was  certainly 
a  narrower  strait  than  he  had  foreseen,  and  he  hardly 
knew  how  to  answer;  but  the  first  flow  of  confession 
had  eased  her,  and  she  went  on  without  farther  per 
suasion. 

[  208  ] 


A     CUP     OF     COLD    WATER 

"I  don't  know  how  I  could  ever  have  done  it;  I 
must  have  been  downright  crazy.  I  did  n't  care  much 
for  Joe  when  I  married  him — he  wasn't  exactly  hand 
some,  and  girls  think  such  a  lot  of  that.  But  he  just 
laid  down  and  worshipped  me,  and  I  was  getting  fond 
of  him  in  a  way ;  only  the  life  was  so  dull.  I  'd  been 
used  to  a  big  city — I  come  from  Detroit — and  Hinks- 
ville  is  such  a  poky  little  place  ;  that 's  where  we  lived  ; 
Joe  is  telegraph-operator  on  the  railroad  there.  He  'd 
have  been  in  a  much  bigger  place  now,  if  he  had  n't — 
well,  after  all,  he  behaved  perfectly  splendidly  about 
that. 

"  I  really  was  getting  fond  of  him,  and  I  believe  I 
should  have  realized  in  time  how  good  and  noble  and 
unselfish  he  was,  if  his  mother  had  n't  been  always  sit 
ting  there  and  everlastingly  telling  me  so.  We  learned 
in  school  about  the  Athenians  hating  some  man  who 
was  always  called  just,  and  that 's  the  way  I  felt  about 
Joe.  Whenever  I  did  anything  that  wasn't  quite  right 
his  mother  would  say  how  differently  Joe  would  have 
done  it.  And  she  was  forever  telling  me  that  Joe  didn't 
approve  of  this  and  that  and  the  other.  When  we  were 
alone  he  approved  of  everything,  but  when  his  mother 
was  round  he  'd  sit  quiet  and  let  her  say  he  did  n't. 
I  knew  he*d  let  me  have  my  way  afterwards,  but 
somehow  that  didn't  prevent  my  getting  mad  at  the 
time. 

[  209  ] 


A     CUP     OF     COLD     WATER 

"And  then  the  evenings  were  so  long,  with  Joe 
away,  and  Mrs.  Glenn  (that 's  his  mother)  sitting  there 
like  an  image  knitting  socks  for  the  heathen.  The 
only  caller  we  ever  had  was  the  Baptist  minister,  and 
he  never  took  any  more  notice  of  me  than  if  I  'd  been 
a  piece  of  furniture.  I  believe  he  was  afraid  to  before 
Mrs.  Glenn." 

She  paused  breathlessly,  and  the  tears  in  her  eyes 
were  now  of  anger. 

"Well?"  said  Woburn  gently. 

"Well — then  Arthur  Hackett  came  along;  he  was 
travelling  for  a  big  publishing  firm  in  Philadelphia.  He 
was  awfully  handsome  and  as  clever  and  sarcastic  as 
anything.  He  used  to  lend  me  lots  of  novels  and  maga 
zines,  and  tell  me  all  about  society  life  in  New  York. 
All  the  girls  were  after  him,  and  Alice  Sprague,  whose 
father  is  the  richest  man  in  Hinksville,  fell  desperately 
in  love  with  him  and  carried  on  like  a  fool ;  but  he 
wouldn't  take  any  notice  of  her.  He  never  looked  at 
anybody  but  me."  Her  face  lit  up  with  a  reminiscent 
smile,  and  then  clouded  again.  "  I  hate  him  now,"  she 
exclaimed,  with  a  change  of  tone  that  startled  Woburn. 
"  I  'd  like  to  kill  him — but  he 's  killed  me  instead. 

"  Well,  he  bewitched  me  so  I  did  n't  know  what  I 

was  doing ;  I  was  like  somebody  in  a  trance.  When  he 

wasn't  there  I  didn't  want  to  speak  to  anybody;  I 

used  to  He  in  bed  half  the  day  just  to  get  away  from 

[210] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD     WATER 

folks ;  I  hated  Joe  and  Hinksville  and  everything  else. 
When  he  came  back  the  days  went  like  a  flash ;  we 
were  together  nearly  all  the  time.  I  knew  Joe's  mother 
was  spying  on  us,  but  I  didn't  care.  And  at  last  it 
seemed  as  if  I  could  n't  let  him  go  away  again  without 
me ;  so  one  evening  he  stopped  at  the  back  gate  in  a 
buggy,  and  we  drove  off  together  and  caught  the  east 
ern  express  at  River  Bend.  He  promised  to  bring  me  to 
New  York."  She  paused,  and  then  added  scornfully, 
"He  didn't  even  do  that!" 

Woburn  had  returned  to  his  seat  and  was  watching 
her  attentively.  It  was  curious  to  note  how  her  passion 
was  spending  itself  in  words ;  he  saw  that  she  would 
never  kill  herself  while  she  had  any  one  to  talk  to. 

"That  was  five  months  ago,"  she  continued,  "and 
we  travelled  all  through  the  southern  states,  and 
stayed  a  little  while  near  Philadelphia,  where  his 
business  is.  He  did  things  real  stylishly  at  first.  Then 
he  was  sent  to  Albany,  and  we  stayed  a  week  at  the 
Delavan  House.  One  afternoon  I  went  out  to  do  some 
shopping,  and  when  I  came  back  he  was  gone.  He  had 
taken  his  trunk  with  him,  and  had  n't  left  any  address  ; 
but  in  my  travelling-bag  I  found  a  fifty-dollar  bill, 
with  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  he  had  written,  'No 
use  coming  after  me ;  I  'm  married.'  We  'd  been  to 
gether  less  than  four  months,  and  I  never  saw  him 
again. 

[211  ] 


A    CUP     OF     COLD     WATER 

"  At  first  I  could  n't  believe  it.  I  stayed  on,  thinking 
it  was  a  joke — or  that  he  'd  feel  sorry  for  me  and  come 
back.  But  he  never  came  and  never  wrote  me  a  line. 
Then  I  began  to  hate  him,  and  to  see  what  a  wicked 
fool  I'd  been  to  leave  Joe.  I  was  so  lonesome — I 
thought  I  'd  go  crazy.  And  I  kept  thinking  how  good 
and  patient  Joe  had  been,  and  how  badly  I'd  used 
him,  and  how  lovely  it  would  be  to  be  back  in  the 
little  parlor  at  Hinksville,  even  with  Mrs.  Glenn  and 
the  minister  talking  about  free-will  and  predestination. 
So  at  last  I  wrote  to  Joe.  I  wrote  him  the  humblest 
letters  you  ever  read,  one  after  another ;  but  I  never 
got  any  answer. 

"  Finally  I  found  I  'd  spent  all  my  money,  so  I  sold 
my  watch  and  my  rings — Joe  gave  me  a  lovely  tur 
quoise  ring  when  we  were  married — and  came  to  New 
York.  I  felt  ashamed  to  stay  alone  any  longer  in  Al 
bany  ;  I  was  afraid  that  some  of  Arthur's  friends,  who 
had  met  me  with  him  on  the  road,  might  come  there 
and  recognize  me.  After  I  got  here  I  wrote  to  Susy 
Price,  a  great  friend  of  mine  who  lives  at  Hinksville, 
and  she  answered  at  once,  and  told  me  just  what  I  had 
expected — that  Joe  was  ready  to  forgive  me  and  crazy 
to  have  me  back,  but  that  his  mother  wouldn't  let 
him  stir  a  step  or  write  me  a  line,  and  that  she  and 
the  minister  were  at  him  all  day  long,  telling  him  how 
bad  I  was  and  what  a  sin  it  would  be  to  forgive  me. 
[212] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

I  got  Susy's  letter  two  or  three  days  ago,  and  after 
that  I  saw  it  was  no  use  writing  to  Joe.  He  '11  never 
dare  go  against  his  mother  and  she  watches  him  like 
a  cat.  I  suppose  I  deserve  it — but  he  might  have  given 
me  another  chance !  I  know  he  would  if  he  could  only 
see  me." 

Her  voice  had  dropped  from  anger  to  lamentation, 
and  her  tears  again  overflowed. 

Woburn  looked  at  her  with  the  pity  one  feels  for  a 
child  who  is  suddenly  confronted  with  the  result  of 
some  unpremeditated  naughtiness. 

"  But  why  not  go  back  to  Hinksville,"  he  suggested, 
ee  if  your  husband  is  ready  to  forgive  you  ?  You  could 
go  to  your  friend's  house,  and  once  your  husband  knows 
you  are  there  you  can  easily  persuade  him  to  see  you." 

"  Perhaps  I  could — Susy  thinks  I  could.  But  I  can't 
go  back;  I  haven't  got  a  cent  left." 

"  But  surely  you  can  borrow  money  ?  Can't  you  ask 
your  friend  to  forward  you  the  amount  of  your  fare  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Susy  ain't  well  off;  she  couldn't  raise  five  dollars, 
and  it  costs  twenty-five  to  get  back  to  Hinksville.  And 
besides,  what  would  become  of  me  while  I  waited  for 
the  money  ?  They  '11  turn  me  out  of  here  to-morrow ; 
I  haven't  paid  my  last  week's  board,  and  I  haven't 
got  anything  to  give  them ;  my  bag's  empty ;  I  've 
pawned  everything." 

[213]. 


A    CUP    OF     COLD    WATER 

"  And  don't  you  know  any  one  here  who  would  lend 
you  the  money  ?  " 

"  No ;  not  a  soul.  At  least  I  do  know  one  gentleman ; 
he 's  a  friend  of  Arthur's,  a  Mr.  Devine ;  he  was  stay 
ing  at  Rochester  when  we  were  there.  I  met  him  in 
the  street  the  other  day,  and  I  didn't  mean  to  speak 
to  him,  but  he  came  up  to  me,  and  said  he  knew  all 
about  Arthur  and  how  meanly  he  had  behaved,  and 
he  wanted  to  know  if  he  couldn't  help  me — I  suppose 
he  saw  I  was  in  trouble.  He  tried  to  persuade  me  to 
go  and  stay  with  his  aunt,  who  has  a  lovely  house 
right  round  here  in  Twenty-fourth  Street ;  he  must 
be  very  rich,  for  he  offered  to  lend  me  as  much 
money  as  I  wanted." 

"You  didn't  take  it?" 

"  No,"  she  returned ;  "  I  daresay  he  meant  to  be 
kind,  but  I  did  n't  care  to  be  beholden  to  any  friend 
of  Arthur's.  He  came  here  again  yesterday,  but  I 
wouldn't  see  him,  so  he  left  a  note  giving  me  his 
aunt's  address  and  saying  she'd  have  a  room  ready 
for  me  at  any  time." 

There  was  a  long  silence;  she  had  dried  her  tears 
and  sat  looking  at  Woburn  with  eyes  full  of  helpless 
reliance. 

"Well,"  he  said  at   length,  "you  did  right  not  to 
take  that  man's  money ;  but  this  is  n't  the  only  alter 
native,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  revolver. 
[214] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

"  I  don't  know  any  other,"  she  answered  wearily. 
"  I  'm  not  smart  enough  to  get  employment ;  I  can't 
make  dresses  or  do  type-writing,  or  any  of  the  useful 
things  they  teach  girls  now;  and  besides,  even  if  I 
could  get  work  I  couldn't  stand  the  loneliness.  I  can 
never  hold  my  head  up  again — I  can't  bear  the  dis 
grace.  If  I  can't  go  back  to  Joe  I  'd  rather  be  dead." 

"  And  if  you  go  back  to  Joe  it  will  be  all  right  ?  " 
Woburn  suggested  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  her  whole  face  alight,  "  if  I  could 
only  go  back  to  Joe ! " 

They  were  both  silent  again ;  Woburn  sat  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  gazing  at  the  floor.  At  length 
his  silence  seemed  to  rouse  her  to  the  unwontedness 
of  the  situation,  and  she  rose  from  her  seat,  saying  in 
a  more  constrained  tone,  "  I  don't  know  why  I  've  told 
you  all  this." 

"Because  you  believed  that  I  would  help  you," 
Woburn  answered,  rising  also;  "and  you  were  right; 
I  'm  going  to  send  you  home." 

She  colored  vividly. 

"  You  told  me  I  was  right  not  to  take  Mr.  Devine's 
money,"  she  faltered. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "but  did  Mr.  Devine  want  to 
send  you  home?" 

"He  wanted  me  to  wait  at  his  aunt's  a  little  while 
first  and  then  write  to  Joe  again." 
[215] 


A     CUP     OF     COLD    WATER 

"I  don't — I  want  you  to  start  to-morrow  morning; 
this  morning,  I  mean.  I  '11  take  you  to  the  station  and 
buy  your  ticket,  and  your  husband  can  send  me  back 
the  money." 

"Oh,  I  can't — I  can't — you  mustn't — "  she  stam 
mered,  reddening  and  paling.  "Besides,  they'll  never 
let  me  leave  here  without  paying." 

"How  much  do  you  owe?" 

"Fourteen  dollars." 

"  Very  well ;  I  '11  pay  that  for  you ;  you  can  leave 
me  your  revolver  as  a  pledge.  But  you  must  start  by 
the  first  train;  have  you  any  idea  at  what  time  it 
leaves  the  Grand  Central  ?  " 

"I  think  there's  one  at  eight." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"  In  less  than  two  hours,  then ;  it 's  after  six  now." 

She  stood  before  him  with  fascinated  eyes. 

"You  must  have  a  very  strong  will,"  she  said. 
"When  you  talk  like  that  you  make  me  feel  as  if  I 
had  to  do  everything  you  say." 

"Well,  you  must,"  said  Woburn  lightly.  "Man  was 
made  to  be  obeyed." 

"  Oh,  you  're  not  like  other  men,"  she  returned ;  "  I 
never  heard  a  voice  like  yours ;  it 's  so  strong  and  kind. 
You  must  be  a  very  good  man ;  you  remind  me  of  Joe  ; 
I  'm  sure  you  've  got  just  such  a  nature  ;  and  Joe  is  the 
best  man  I  've  ever  seen." 

[216] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

Woburn  made  no  reply,  and  she  rambled  on,  with 
little  pauses  and  fresh  bursts  of  confidence. 

"  Joe 's  a  real  hero,  you  know ;  he  did  the  most 
splendid  thing  you  ever  heard  of.  I  think  I  began  to 
tell  you  about  it,  but  I  did  n't  finish.  I  '11  tell  you  now. 
It  happened  just  after  we  were  married ;  I  was  mad 
with  him  at  the  time,  I  'm  afraid,  but  now  I  see  how 
splendid  he  was.  He'd  been  telegraph  operator  at 
Hinksville  for  four  years  and  was  hoping  that  he  'd 
get  promoted  to  a  bigger  place ;  but  he  was  afraid  to 
ask  for  a  raise.  Well,  I  was  very  sick  with  a  bad  attack 
of  pneumonia  and  one  night  the  doctor  said  he  was  n't 
sure  whether  he  could  pull  me  through.  When  they 
sent  word  to  Joe  at  the  telegraph  office  he  could  n't 
stand  being  away  from  me  another  minute.  There  was 
a  poor  consumptive  boy  always  hanging  round  the 
station ;  Joe  had  taught  him  how  to  operate,  just  to 
help  him  along;  so  he  left  him  in  the  office  and  tore 
home  for  half  an  hour,  knowing  he  could  get  back 
before  the  eastern  express  came  along. 

"He  had  n't  been  gone  five  minutes  when  a  freight- 
train  ran  off  the  rails  about  a  mile  up  the  track.  It  was 
a  very  still  night,  and  the  boy  heard  the  smash  and 
shouting,  and  knew  something  had  happened.  He 
could  n't  tell  what  it  was,  but  the  minute  he  heard 
it  he  sent  a  message  over  the  wires  like  a  flash,  and 
caught  the  eastern  express  just  as  it  was  pulling  out 
[  217  ].. 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

of  the  station  above  Hinksville.  If  he  'd  hesitated  a 
second,  or  made  any  mistake,  the  express  would  have 
come  on,  and  the  loss  of  life  would  have  been  fearful'. 
The  next  day  the  Hinksville  papers  were  full  of  Op 
erator  Glenn's  presence  of  mind;  they  all  said  he'd 
be  promoted.  That  was  early  in  November  and  Joe 
didn't  hear  anything  from  the  company  till  the  first 
of  January.  Meanwhile  the  boy  had  gone  home  to  his 
father's  farm  out  in  the  country,  and  before  Christmas 
he  was  dead.  Well,  on  New  Year's  day  Joe  got  a  notice 
from  the  company  saying  that  his  pay  was  to  be  raised, 
and  that  he  was  to  be  promoted  to  a  big  junction  near 
Detroit,  in  recognition  of  his  presence  of  mind  in  stop 
ping  the  eastern  express.  It  was  just  what  we  'd  both 
been  pining  for  and  I  was  nearly  wild  with  joy ;  but  I 
noticed  Joe  did  n't  say  much.  He  just  telegraphed  for 
leave,  and  the  next  day  he  went  right  up  to  Detroit 
and  told  the  directors  there  what  had  really  happened. 
When  he  came  back  he  told  us  they  'd  suspended  him ; 
I  cried  every  night  for  a  week,  and  even  his  mother 
said  he  was  a  fool.  After  that  we  just  lived  on  at 
Hinksville,  and  six  months  later  the  company  took 
him  back ;  but  I  don 't  suppose  they  '11  ever  promote 
him  now." 

Her  voice  again  trembled  with  facile  emotion. 

"  Was  n't  it  beautiful  of  him  ?  Ain't  he  a  real  hero  ?  " 
she  said.  "  And  I  'm  sure  you  'd  behave  just  like  him ; 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

you  'd  be  just  as  gentle  about  little  things,  and  you  'd 
never  move  an  inch  about  big  ones.  You  'd  never  do 
a  mean  action,  but  you  'd  be  sorry  for  people  who  did  ; 
I  can  see  it  in  your  face ;  that 's  why  I  trusted  you 
right  off." 

Woburn's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  window ;  he  hardly 
seemed  to  hear  her.  At  length  he  walked  across  the 
room  and  pulled  up  the  shade.  The  electric  lights  were 
dissolving  in  the  gray  alembic  of  the  dawn.  A  milk- 
cart  rattled  down  the  street  and,  like  a  witch  return 
ing  late  from  the  Sabbath,  a  stray  cat  whisked  into  an 
area.  So  rose  the  appointed  day. 

Woburn  turned  back,  drawing  from  his  pocket  the 
roll  of  bills  which  he  had  thrust  there  with  so  different 
a  purpose.  He  counted  them  out,  and  handed  her  fif 
teen  dollars. 

"  That  will  pay  for  your  board,  including  your  break 
fast  this  morning,"  he  said.  "We'll  breakfast  together 
presently  if  you  like ;  and  meanwhile  suppose  we  sit 
down  and  watch  the  sunrise.  I  have  n't  seen  it  for  years." 

He  pushed  two  chairs  toward  the  window,  and  they 
sat  down  side  by  side.  The  light  came  gradually,  with 
the  icy  reluctance  of  winter ;  at  last  a  red  disk  pushed 
itself  above  the  opposite  house-tops  and  a  long  cold 
gleam  slanted  across  their  window.  They  did  not  talk 
much ;  there  was  a  silencing  awe  in  the  spectacle. 

Presently  Woburn  rose  and  looked  again  at  his  watch. 
[219] 


A    CUP     OF     COLD     WATER 

"I  must  go  and  cover  up  my  dress-coat/'  he  said, 
"  and  you  had  better  put  on  your  hat  and  jacket.  We 
shall  have  to  be  starting  in  half  an  hour." 

As  he  turned  away  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"You  haven't  even  told  me  your  name/'  she  said. 

"  No,"  he  answered ;  "  but  if  you  get  safely  back  to 
Joe  you  can  call  me  Providence." 

"But  how  am  I  to  send  you  the  money?" 

"Oh — well,  I'll  write  you  a  line  in  a  day  or  two 
and  give  you  my  address ;  I  don't  know  myself  what 
it  will  be ;  I  'm  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"  But  you  must  have  my  name  if  you  mean  to  write 
to  me." 

"Well,  what  is  your  name?" 

"Ruby  Glenn.  And  I  think — I  almost  think  you 
might  send  the  letter  right  to  Joe's — send  it  to  the 
Hinksville  station." 

"Very  well." 

"You  promise?" 

"  Of  course  I  promise." 

He  went  back  into  his  room,  thinking  how  appropri 
ate  it  was  that  she  should  have  an  absurd  name  like 
Ruby.  As  he  re-entered  the  room,  where  the  gas  sick 
ened  in  the  daylight,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was 
returning  to  some  forgotten  land ;  he  had  passed,  with 
the  last  few  hours,  into  a  wholly  new  phase  of  con 
sciousness.  He  put  on  his  fur  coat,  turning  up  the 
[  220  ] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD     WATER 

collar  and  crossing  the  lapels  to  hide  his  white  tie. 
Then  he  put  his  cigar-case  in  his  pocket,  turned  out 
the  gas,  and,  picking  up  his  hat  and  stick,  walked 
back  through  the  open  doorway. 

Ruby  Glenn  had  obediently  prepared  herself  for 
departure  and  was  standing  before  the  mirror,  patting 
her  curls  into  place.  Her  eyes  were  still  red,  but  she 
had  the  happy  look  of  a  child  that  has  outslept  its 
grief.  On  the  floor  he  noticed  the  tattered  fragments 
of  the  letter  which,  a  few  hours  earlier,  he  had  seen 
her  place  before  the  mirror. 

"  Shall  we  go  down  now  ?  "  he  asked. 

ee  Very  well,"  she  assented  ;  then,  with  a  quick  move 
ment,  she  stepped  close  to  him,  and  putting  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders  lifted  her  face  to  his. 

"  I  believe  you  're  the  best  man  I  ever  knew,"  she 
said,  "the  very  best — except  Joe." 

She  drew  back  blushing  deeply,  and  unlocked  the  door 
which  led  into  the  passage-way.  Woburn  picked  up  her 
bag,  which  she  had  forgotten,  and  followed  her  out  of  the 
room.  They  passed  a  frowzy  chambermaid,  who  stared 
at  them  with  a  yawn.  Before  the  doors  the  row  of  boots 
still  waited ;  there  was  a  faint  new  aroma  of  coffee 
mingling  with  the  smell  of  vanished  dinners,  and  a  fresh 
blast  of  heat  had  begun  to  tingle  through  the  radiators. 

In  the  unventilated  coffee-room  they  found  a  waiter 
who  had  the  melancholy  air  of  being  the  last  survivor 
[221] 


A    CUP     OF     COLD    WATER 

of  an  exterminated  race,  and  who  reluctantly  brought 
them  some  tea  made  with  water  which  had  not  boiled, 
and  a  supply  of  stale  rolls  and  staler  butter.  On  this 
meagre  diet  they  fared  in  silence,  Woburn  occasionally 
glancing  at  his  watch ;  at  length  he  rose,  telling  his 
companion  to  go  and  pay  her  bill  while  he  called  a 
hansom.  After  all,  there  was  no  use  in  economizing  his 
remaining  dollars. 

In  a  few  moments  she  joined  him  under  the  por 
tico  of  the  hotel.  The  hansom  stood  waiting  and  he 
sprang  in  after  her,  calling  to  the  driver  to  take  them 
to  the  Forty-second  Street  station. 

When  they  reached  the  station  he  found  a  seat  for 
her  and  went  to  buy  her  ticket.  There  were  several 
people  ahead  of  him  at  the  window,  and  when  he  had 
bought  the  ticket  he  found  that  it  was  time  to  put  her 
in  the  train.  She  rose  in  answer  to  his  glance,  and  to 
gether  they  walked  down  the  long  platform  in  the 
murky  chill  of  the  roofed-in  air.  He  followed  her  into 
the  railway  carriage,  making  sure  that  she  had  her  bag, 
and  that  the  ticket  was  safe  inside  it ;  then  he  held  out 
his  hand,  in  its  pearl-coloured  evening  glove :  he  felt 
that  the  people  in  the  other  seats  were  staring  at  them. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  answered,  flushing  gratefully.  "  I  '11 
never  forget — never.  And  you  will  write,  won't  you? 
Promise !  " 

[222] 


A     CUP     OF     COLD     WATER 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  he  said,  hastening  from  the 
carriage. 

He  retraced  his  way  along  the  platform,  passed 
through  the  dismal  waiting-room  and  stepped  out 
into  the  early  sunshine.  On  the  sidewalk  outside  the 
station  he  hesitated  awhile ;  then  he  strolled  slowly 
down  Forty-second  Street  and,  skirting  the  melancholy 
flank  of  the  Reservoir,  walked  across  Bryant  Park. 
Finally  he  sat  down  on  one  of  the  benches  near  the 
Sixth  Avenue  and  lit  a  cigar. 

The  signs  of  life  were  multiplying  around  him ;  he 
watched  the  cars  roll  by  with  their  increasing  freight 
of  dingy  toilers,  the  shop-girls  hurrying  to  their  work, 
the  children  trudging  schoolward,  their  small  vague 
noses  red  with  cold,  their  satchels  clasped  in  woollen- 
gloved  hands.  There  is  nothing  very  imposing  in  the 
first  stirring  of  a  great  city's  activities ;  it  is  a  slow 
reluctant  process,  like  the  waking  of  a  heavy  sleeper ; 
but  to  Woburn's  mood  the  sight  of  that  obscure  re 
newal  of  humble  duties  was  more  moving  than  the 
spectacle  of  an  army  with  banners. 

He  sat  for  a  long  time,  smoking  the  last  cigar  in 
his  case,  and  murmuring  to  himself  a  line  from  Hamlet 
— the  saddest,  he  thought,  in  the  play — 

For  every  man  hath  business  and  desire. 

Suddenly  an  unpremeditated  movement  made  him 
[228] 


A    CUP     OF     COLD     WATER 

feel  the  pressure  of  Ruby  Glenn's  revolver  in  his 
pocket ;  it  was  like  a  devil's  touch  on  his  arm,  and  he 
sprang  up  hastily.  In  his  other  pocket  there  were  just 
four  dollars  and  fifty  cents ;  but  that  did  n't  matter 
now.  He  had  no  thought  of  flight. 

For  a  few  minutes  he  loitered  vaguely  about  the 
park ;  then  the  cold  drove  him  on  again,  and  with  the 
rapidity  born  of  a  sudden  resolve  he  began  to  walk 
down  the  Fifth  Avenue  towards  his  lodgings.  He 
brushed  past  a  maid-servant  who  was  washing  the 
vestibule  and  ran  up  stairs  to  his  room.  A  fire  was 
burning  in  the  grate  and  his  books  and  photographs 
greeted  him  cheerfully  from  the  walls ;  the  tranquil 
air  of  the  whole  room  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted 
that  he  meant  to  have  his  bath  and  breakfast  and 
go  down  town  as  usual. 

He  threw  off  his  coat  and  pulled  the  revolver  out  of 
his  pocket ;  for  some  moments  he  held  it  curiously  in 
his  hand,  bending  over  to  examine  it  as  Ruby  Glenn  had 
done ;  then  he  laid  it  in  the  top  drawer  of  a  small  cabi 
net,  and  locking  the  drawer  threw  the  key  into  the  fire. 

After  that  he  went  quietly  about  the  usual  business 
of  his  toilet.  In  taking  off  his  dress-coat  he  noticed 
the  Legion  of  Honor  which  Miss  Talcott  had  given 
him  at  the  ball.  He  pulled  it  out  of  his  buttonhole 
and  tossed  it  into  the  fire-place.  When  he  had  fin 
ished  dressing  he  saw  with  surprise  that  it  was  nearly 
[224] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

ten  o'clock.  Ruby  Glenn  was  already  two  hours  nearer 
home. 

Woburn  stood  looking  about  the  room  of  which  he 
had  thought  to  take  final  leave  the  night  before ; 
among  the  ashes  beneath  the  grate  he  caught  sight 
of  a  little  white  heap  which  symbolized  to  his  fancy 
the  remains  of  his  brief  correspondence  with  Miss 
Talcott.  He  roused  himself  from  this  unseasonable 
musing  and  with  a  final  glance  at  the  familiar  setting 
of  his  past,  turned  to  face  the  future  which  the  last 
hours  had  prepared  for  him. 

He  went  down  stairs  and  stepped  out  of  doors,  has 
tening  down  the  street  towards  Broadway  as  though 
he  were  late  for  an  appointment.  Every  now  and  then 
he  encountered  an  acquaintance,  whom  he  greeted 
with  a  nod  and  smile ;  he  carried  his  head  high, 
and  shunned  no  man's  recognition. 

At  length  he  reached  the  doors  of  a  tall  granite 
building  honey-combed  with  windows.  He  mounted 
the  steps  of  the  portico,  and  passing  through  the 
double  doors  of  plate-glass,  crossed  a  vestibule  floored 
with  mosaic  to  another  glass  door  on  which  was  em 
blazoned  the  name  of  the  firm. 

This  door  he  also  opened,  entering  a  large  room  with 
wainscotted  subdivisions,  behind  which  appeared  the 
stooping  shoulders  of  a  row  of  clerks. 

As  Woburn  crossed  the  threshold  a  gray-haired  man 
[225] 


A    CUP    OF    COLD    WATER 

emerged  from  an  inner  office  at  the  opposite  end  of 
the  room. 

At  sight  of  Woburn  he  stopped  short. 

"  Mr.  Woburn ! "  he  exclaimed ;  then  he  stepped 
nearer  and  added  in  a  low  tone :  "  I  was  requested  to 
tell  you  when  you  came  that  the  members  of  the  firm 
are  waiting ;  will  you  step  into  the  private  office  ?  " 


[226] 


THE    PORTRAIT 


THE     PORTRAIT 

IT  was  at  Mrs.  Mellish's,  one  Sunday  afternoon  last 
spring.  We  were  talking  over  George  Lillo's  por 
traits — a  collection  of  them  was  being  shown  at 
Durand-Ruel's — and  a  pretty  woman  had  emphatically 
declared: — 

ee  Nothing  on  earth  would  induce  me  to  sit  to  him  !  " 

There  was  a  chorus  of  interrogations. 

<e  Oh,  because — he  makes  people  look  so  horrid ; 
the  way  one  looks  on  board  ship,  or  early  in  the 
morning,  or  when  one's  hair  is  out  of  curl  and  one 
knows  it.  I  'd  so  much  rather  be  done  by  Mr.  Cum- 
berton ! " 

Little  Cumberton,  the  fashionable  purveyor  of  rose- 
water  pastels,  stroked  his  moustache  to  hide  a  con 
scious  smile. 

"  Lillo  is  a  genius — that  we  must  all  admit,"  he  said 
indulgently,  as  though  condoning  a  friend's  weakness ; 
"but  he  has  an  unfortunate  temperament.  He  has 
been  denied  the  gift — so  precious  to  an  artist — of 
perceiving  the  ideal.  He  sees  only  the  defects  of  his 
sitters ;  one  might  almost  fancy  that  he  takes  a  morbid 
pleasure  in  exaggerating  their  weak  points,  in  painting 
them  on  their  worst  days ;  but  I  honestly  believe  he 
can't  help  himself.  His  peculiar  limitations  prevent  his 
[229] 


THE    PORTRAIT 

seeing  anything  but  the  most  prosaic  side  of  human 

nature — 

eet  A  primrose  by  the  river  s  brim 

A  yellow  primrose  is  to  him. 
And  it  is  nothing  more.'  " 

Cumberton  looked  round  to  surprise  an  order  in  the 
eye  of  the  lady  whose  sentiments  he  had  so  deftly 
interpreted,  but  poetry  always  made  her  uncomforta 
ble,  and  her  nomadic  attention  had  strayed  to  other 
topics.  His  glance  was  tripped  up  by  Mrs.  Mellish. 

"Limitations?  But,  my  dear  man,  it's  because  he 
hasn't  any  limitations,  because  he  doesn't  wear  the 
portrait-painter's  conventional  blinders,  that  we  're  all 
so  afraid  of  being  painted  by  him.  It 's  not  because  he 
sees  only  one  aspect  of  his  sitters,  it's  because  he 
selects  the  real,  the  typical  one,  as  instinctively  as  a 
detective  collars  a  pick-pocket  in  a  crowd.  If  there  's 
nothing  to  paint — no  real  person — he  paints  nothing; 
look  at  the  sumptuous  emptiness  of  his  portrait  of 
Mrs.  Guy  Awdrey" —  ("Why,"  the  pretty  woman 
perplexedly  interjected,  "that's  the  only  nice  picture 
he  ever  did ! ")  "  If  there 's  one  positive  trait  in  a  nega 
tive  whole  he  brings  it  out  in  spite  of  himself;  if  it 
is  n't  a  nice  trait,  so  much  the  worse  for  the  sitter ;  it 
is  n't  Lillo's  fault :  he  's  no  more  to  blame  than  a  mir 
ror.  Your  other  painters  do  the  surface  —  he  does  the 
depths ;  they  paint  the  ripples  on  the  pond,  he  drags 
[  230  ] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

the  bottom.  He  makes  flesh  seem  as  fortuitous  as  clothes. 
When  I  look  at  his  portraits  of  fine  ladies  in  pearls  and 
velvet  I  seem  to  see  a  little  naked  cowering  wisp  of  a 
soul  sitting  beside  the  big  splendid  body,  like  a  poor 
relation  in  the  darkest  corner  of  an  opera-box.  But  look 
at  his  pictures  of  really  great  people — how  great  they 
are !  There  's  plenty  of  ideal  there.  Take  his  Professor 
Clyde  ;  how  clearly  the  man's  history  is  written  in  those 
broad  steady  strokes  of  the  brush :  the  hard  work,  the 
endless  patience,  the  fearless  imagination  of  the  great 
savant  !  Or  the  picture  of  Mr.  Domfrey — the  man  who 
has  felt  beauty  without  having  the  power  to  create  it. 
The  very  brush-work  expresses  the  difference  between 
the  two ;  the  crowding  of  nervous  tentative  lines,  the 
subtler  gradations  of  color,  somehow  convey  a  sugges 
tion  of  dilettantism.  You  feel  what  a  delicate  instru 
ment  the  man  is,  how  every  sense  has  been  tuned  to 
the  finest  responsiveness."  Mrs.  Mellish  paused,  blush 
ing  a  little  at  the  echo  of  her  own  eloquence.  "My 
advice  is,  don't  let  George  Lillo  paint  you  if  you  don't 
want  to  be  found  out — or  to  find  yourself  out.  That's 
why  I  've  never  let  him  do  me ;  I  'm  waiting  for  the 
day  of  judgment,"  she  ended  with  a  laugh. 

Every  one  but  the  pretty  woman,  whose  eyes  be 
trayed  a  quivering  impatience  to  discuss  clothes,  had 
listened  attentively  to   Mrs.   Mellish.   Lillo' s  presence 
in  New  York — he  had  come  over  from  Paris  for  the 
[231  ] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

first  time  in  twelve  years,  to  arrange  the  exhibition  of 
his  pictures — gave  to  the  analysis  of  his  methods  as 
personal  a  flavor  as  though  one  had  been  furtively  dis 
secting  his  domestic  relations.  The  analogy,  indeed,  is 
not  unapt ;  for  in  Lillo's  curiously  detached  existence 
it  is  difficult  to  figure  any  closer  tie  than  that  which 
unites  him  to  his  pictures.  In  this  light,  Mrs.  Mellish's 
flushed  harangue  seemed  not  unfitted  to  the  triviali 
ties  of  the  tea  hour,  and  some  one  almost  at  once  car 
ried  on  the  argument  by  saying :  —  tf  But  according  to 
your  theoiy — that  the  significance  of  his  work  depends 
on  the  significance  of  the  sitter — his  portrait  of  Vard 
ought  to  be  a  master-piece ;  and  it 's  his  biggest  fail 
ure." 

Alonzo  Yard's  suicide — he  killed  himself,  strangely 
enough,  the  day  that  Lillo's  pictures  were  first  shown 
— had  made  his  portrait  the  chief  feature  of  the  ex 
hibition.  It  had  been  painted  ten  or  twelve  years  earl 
ier,  when  the  terrible  "  Boss  "  was  at  the  height  of  his 
power ;  and  if  ever  man  presented  a  type  to  stimulate 
such  insight  as  Lillo's,  that  man  was  Vard ;  yet  the 
portrait  was  a  failure.  It  was  magnificently  composed ; 
the  technique  was  dazzling ;  but  the  face  had  been — 
well,  expurgated.  It  was  Vard  as  Cumberton  might 
have  painted  him — a  common  man  trying  to  look  at 
ease  in  a  good  coat.  The  picture  had  never  before  been 
exhibited,  and  there  was  a  general  outcry  of  disappoint- 
f  23%  ] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

ment.  It  wasn't  only  the  critics  and  the  artists  who 
grumbled.  Even  the  big  public,  which  had  gaped  and 
shuddered  at  Vard,  revelling  in  his  genial  villany,  and 
enjoying  in  his  death  that  succumbing  to  divine  wrath 
which,  as  a  spectacle,  is  next  best  to  its  successful  de 
fiance — even  the  public  felt  itself  defrauded.  What  had 
the  painter  done  with  their  hero  ?  Where  was  the  big 
sneering  domineering  face  that  figured  so  convin 
cingly  in  political  cartoons  and  patent-medicine  adver 
tisements,  on  cigar-boxes  and  electioneering  posters? 
They  had  admired  the  man  for  looking  his  part  so 
boldly ;  for  showing  the  undisguised  blackguard  in 
every  line  of  his  coarse  body  and  cruel  face ;  the 
pseudo-gentleman  of  Lillo's  picture  was  a  poor  thing 
compared  to  the  real  Vard.  It  had  been  vaguely  ex 
pected  that  the  great  boss's  portrait  would  have  the 
zest  of  an  incriminating  document,  the  scandalous  at 
traction  of  secret  memoirs ;  and  instead,  it  was  as  in 
sipid  as  an  obituary.  It  was  as  though  the  artist  had 
been  in  league  with  his  sitter,  had  pledged  himself  to 
oppose  to  the  lust  for  post-mortem  "revelations"  an 
impassable  blank  wall  of  negation.  The  public  was 
resentful,  the  critics  were  aggrieved.  Even  Mrs.  Mel- 
lish  had  to  lay  down  her  arms. 

"  Yes,  the  portrait  of  Vard  is  a  failure,"  she  admitted, 
"  and  I  've  never  known  why.  If  he  'd  been  an  obscure 
elusfVe  type  of  villain,  one  could  understand   Lillo's 
[  233] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

missing  the  mark  for  once;  but  with  that  face  from 
the  pit — !" 

She  turned  at  the  announcement  of  a  name  which 
our  discussion  had  drowned,  and  found  herself  shak 
ing  hands  with  Lillo. 

The  pretty  woman  started  and  put  her  hands  to  her 
curls ;  Cumberton  dropped  a  condescending  eyelid  (he 
never  classed  himself  by  recognizing  degrees  in  the 
profession),  and  Mrs.  Mellish,  cheerfully  aware  that  she 
had  been  overheard,  said,  as  she  made  room  for  Lillo — 

"I  wish  you'd  explain  it." 

Lillo  smoothed  his  beard  and  waited  for  a  cup  of 
tea.  Then,  "Would  there  be  any  failures,"  he  said,  " if 
one  could  explain  them  ?  " 

"  Ah,  in  some  cases  I  can  imagine  it's  impossible  to 
seize  the  type — or  to  say  why  one  has  missed  it.  Some 
people  are  like  daguerreotypes;  in  certain  lights  one 
can't  see  them  at  all.  But  surely  Vard  was  obvious 
enough.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  what  became  of 
him?  What  did  you  do  with  him?  How  did  you  man 
age  to  shuffle  him  out  of  sight  ?  " 

"  It  was  much  easier  than  you  think.  I  simply  missed 
an  opportunity — 

"  That  a  sign-painter  would  have  seen ! " 

"Very  likely.  In  fighting  shy  of  the  obvious  one 
may  miss  the  significant — " 

" — And  when  I  got  back  from  Paris,"  the  pretty 

J 


THE     PORTRAIT 

woman  was  heard  to  wail,  "I  found  all  the  women 
here  were  wearing  the  very  models  I  'd  brought  home 
with  me ! " 

Mrs.  Hellish,  as  became  a  vigilant  hostess,  got  up 
and  shuffled  her  guests  ;  and  the  question  of  Yard's 
portrait  was  dropped. 

I  left  the  house  with  Lillo ;  and  on  the  way  down 
Fifth  Avenue,  after  one  of  his  long  silences,  he  sud 
denly  asked : 

"Is  that  what  is  generally  said  of  my  picture  of 
Vard?  I  don't  mean  in  the  newspapers,  but  by  the 
fellows  who  know?" 

I  said  it  was. 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Well,"  he  said,  "it's 
good  to  know  that  when  one  tries  to  fail  one  can 
make  such  a  complete  success  of  it." 

"Tries  to  fail?" 

"  Well,  no ;  that 's  not  quite  it,  either ;  I  did  n't 
want  to  make  a  failure  of  Yard's  picture,  but  I  did  so 
deliberately,  with  my  eyes  open,  all  the  same.  It  was 
what  one  might  call  a  lucid  failure." 

"But  why—?" 

"  The  why  of  it  is  rather  complicated.  I  '11  tell  you 
some  time —  "  He  hesitated.  "Come  and  dine  with  me 
at  the  club  by  and  by,  and  I  '11  tell  you  afterwards. 
It 's  a  nice  morsel  for  a  psychologist." 

At  dinner  he  said  little ;  but  I  did  n't  mind  that.  I 
[235] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

had  known  him  for  years,  and  had  always  found  some 
thing  soothing  and  companionable  in  his  long  absten 
tions  from  speech.  His  silence  was  never  unsocial;  it 
was  bland  as  a  natural  hush ;  one  felt  one's  self  in 
cluded  in  it,  not  left  out.  He  stroked  his  beard  and 
gazed  absently  at  me ;  and  when  we  had  finished  our 
coffee  and  liqueurs  we  strolled  down  to  his  studio. 

At  the  studio — which  was  less  draped,  less  posed, 
less  consciously  "artistic"  than  those  of  the  smaller 
men — he  handed  me  a  cigar,  and  fell  to  smoking  be 
fore  the  fire.  When  he  began  to  talk  it  was  of  indif 
ferent  matters,  and  I  had  dismissed  the  hope  of 
hearing  more  of  Yard's  portrait,  when  my  eye  lit  on 
a  photograph  of  the  picture.  I  walked  across  the 
room  to  look  at  it,  and  Lillo  presently  followed  with 
a  light. 

"It  certainly  is  a  complete  disguise,"  he  muttered 
over  my  shoulder;  then  he  turned  away  and  stooped 
to  a  big  portfolio  propped  against  the  wall. 

"  Did  you  ever  know  Miss  Vard  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
his  head  in  the  portfolio ;  and  without  waiting  for  my 
answer  he  handed  me  a  crayon  sketch  of  a  girl's  profile. 

I  had  never  seen  a  crayon  of  Lillo's,  and  I  lost  sight 
of  the  sitter's  personality  in  the  interest  aroused  by 
this  new  aspect  of  the  master's  complex  genius.  The 
few  lines — faint,  yet  how  decisive! — flowered  out  of 
the  rough  paper  with  the  lightness  of  opening  petals. 
[  236  ] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

It  was  a  mere  hint  of  a  picture,  but  vivid  as  some  word 
that  wakens  long  reverberations  in  the  memory. 

I  felt  Lillo  at  my  shoulder  again. 

"  You  knew  her,  I  suppose  ?  " 

I  had  to  stop  and  think.  Why,  of  course  I  'd  known 
her:  a  silent  handsome  girl,  showy  yet  ineffective, 
whom  I  had  seen  without  seeing  the  winter  that 
society  had  capitulated  to  Vard.  Still  looking  at  the 
crayon,  I  tried  to  trace  some  connection  between  the 
Miss  Vard  I  recalled  and  the  grave  young  seraph  of 
Lillo's  sketch.  Had  the  Vards  bewitched  him?  By 
what  masterstroke  of  suggestion  had  he  been  beguiled 
into  drawing  the  terrible  father  as  a  barber's  block,  the 
commonplace  daughter  as  this  memorable  creature? 

"You  don't  remember  much  about  her?  No,  I  sup 
pose  not.  She  was  a  quiet  girl  and  nobody  noticed  her 
much,  even  when —  "  he  paused  with  a  smile — "you 
were  all  asking  Vard  to  dine." 

I  winced.  Yes,  it  was  true — we  had  all  asked  Vard 
to  dine.  It  was  some  comfort  to  think  that  fate  had 
made  him  expiate  our  weakness. 

Lillo  put  the  sketch  on  the  mantel-shelf  and  drew 
his  arm-chair  to  the  fire. 

"It's  cold  to-night.  Take  another  cigar,  old  man; 
and  some  whiskey?  There  ought  to  be  a  bottle  and 
some  glasses  in  that  cupboard  behind  you  .  .  .  help 
yourself  ..." 

[237] 


THE     PORTRAIT 
II 

A&OUT  Yard's  portrait?  (he  began.)  Well,  I'll 
tell  you.  It's  a  queer  story,  and  most  people 
would  n't  see  anything  in  it.  My  enemies  might  say 
it  was  a  roundabout  way  of  explaining  a  failure ;  but 
you  know  better  than  that.  Mrs.  Mellish  was  right. 
Between  me  and  Vard  there  could  be  no  question  of 
failure.  The  man  was  made  for  me — I  felt  that  the 
first  time  I  clapped  eyes  on  him.  I  could  hardly  keep 
from  asking  him  to  sit  to  me  on  the  spot ;  but  some 
how  one  couldn't  ask  favors  of  the  fellow.  I  sat  still 
and  prayed  he  'd  come  to  me,  though ;  for  I  was  look 
ing  for  something  big  for  the  next  Salon.  It  was  twelve 
years  ago — the  last  time  I  was  out  here — and  I  was 
ravenous  for  an  opportunity.  I  had  the  feeling — do  you 
writer-fellows  have  it  too? — that  there  was  something 
tremendous  in  me  if  it  could  only  be  got  out ;  and  I 
felt  Vard  was  the  Moses  to  strike  the  rock.  There  were 
vulgar  reasons,  too,  that  made  me  hunger  for  a  victim. 
I  'd  been  grinding  on  obscurely  for  a  good  many  years, 
without  gold  or  glory,  and  the  first  thing  of  mine  that 
had  made  a  noise  was  my  picture  of  Pepita,  exhibited 
the  year  before.  There  'd  been  a  lot  of  talk  about  that, 
orders  were  beginning  to  come  in,  and  I  wanted  to 
follow  it  up  with  a  rousing  big  thing  at  the  next  Salon. 
Then  the  critics  had  been  insinuating  that  I  could  do 
[  238  ] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

only  Spanish  things — I  suppose  I  had  overdone  the 
castanet  business ;  it 's  a  nursery-disease  we  all  go 
through — and  I  wanted  to  show  that  I  had  plenty 
more  shot  in  my  locker.  Don't  you  get  up  every  morn 
ing  meaning  to  prove  you  're  equal  to  Balzac  or  Thack 
eray  ?  That 's  the  way  I  felt  then  ;  only  give  me  a  chance, 

I  wanted   to  shout  out  to  them ;  and  I  saw  at  once 
i 

that  Vard  was  my  chance. 

I  had  come  over  from  Paris  in  the  autumn  to  paint 
Mrs.  Clingsborough,  and  I  met  Vard  and  his  daughter 
at  one  of  the  first  dinners  I  went  to.  After  that  I  could 
think  of  nothing  but  that  man's  head.  What  a  type !  I 
raked  up  all  the  details  of  his  scandalous  history ;  and 
there  were  enough  to  fill  an  encyclopaedia.  The  papers 
were  full  of  him  just  then ;  he  was  mud  from  head  to 
foot ;  it  was  about  the  time  of  the  big  viaduct  steal,  and 
irreproachable  citizens  were  forming  ineffectual  leagues 
to  put  him  down.  And  all  the  time  one  kept  meeting 
him  at  dinners — that  was  the  beauty  of  it !  Once  I  re 
member  seeing  him  next  to  the  Bishop's  wife ;  I  Ve  got 
a  little  sketch  of  that  duet  somewhere  .  .  .  Well,  he 
was  simply  magnificent,  a  born  ruler;  what  a  splendid 
condottiere  he  would  have  made,  in  gold  armor,  with 
a  griffin  grinning  on  his  casque !  You  remember  those 
drawings  of  Leonardo's,  where  the  knight's  face  and 
the  outline  of  his  helmet  combine  in  one  monstrous 
saurian  profile  ?  He  always  reminded  me  of  that  .  .  . 
[  239  ] 


THE    PORTRAIT 

But  how  was  I  to  get  at  him? — One  day  it  occurred 
to  me  to  try  talking  to  Miss  Vard.  She  was  a  monosyl 
labic  person,  who  didn't  seem  to  see  an  inch  beyond 
the  last  remark  one  had  made ;  but  suddenly  I  found 
myself  blurting  out,  "  I  wonder  if  you  know  how  ex 
traordinarily  pain  table  your  father  is  ?  "  and  you  should 
have  seen  the  change  that  came  over  her.  Her  eyes  lit 
up  and  she  looked — well,  as  I  've  tried  to  make  her 
look  there.  (He  glanced  up  at  the  sketch.)  Yes,  she 
said,  was  n't  her  father  splendid,  and  did  n't  I  think  him 
one  of  the  handsomest  men  I  'd  ever  seen  ? 

That  rather  staggered  me,  I  confess;  I  couldn't 
think  her  capable  of  joking  on  such  a  subject,  yet  it 
seemed  impossible  that  she  should  be  speaking  seri 
ously.  But  she  was.  I  knew  it  by  the  way  she  looked 
at  Vard,  who  was  sitting  opposite,  his  wolfish  profile 
thrown  back,  the  shaggy  locks  tossed  off  his  narrow 
high  white  forehead.  The  girl  worshipped  him. 

She  went  on  to  say  how  glad  she  was  that  I  saw  him 
as  she  did.  So  many  artists  admired  only  regular  beauty, 
the  stupid  Greek  type  that  was  made  to  be  done  in 
marble ;  but  she  'd  always  fancied  from  what  she  'd 
seen  of  my  work — she  knew  everything  I  'd  done,  it 
appeared — that  I  looked  deeper,  cared  more  for  the 
way  in  which  faces  are  modelled  by  temperament  and 
circumstance;  "and  of  course  in  that  sense,"  she  con 
cluded,  "my  father's  face  is  beautiful." 
[  240  ] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

This  was  even  more  staggering;  but  one  couldn't 
question  her  divine  sincerity.  I  'm  afraid  my  one 
thought  was  to  take  advantage  of  it ;  and  I  let  her  go 
on,  perceiving  that  if  I  wanted  to  paint  Vard  all  I  had 
to  do  was  to  listen. 

She  poured  out  her  heart.  It  was  a  glorious  thing 
for  a  girl,  she  said,  wasn't  it,  to  be  associated  with 
such  a  life  as  that  ?  She  felt  it  so  strongly,  sometimes, 
that  it  oppressed  her,  made  her  shy  and  stupid.  She 
was  so  afraid  people  would  expect  her  to  live  up  to 
him.  But  that  was  absurd,  of  course ;  brilliant  men  so 
seldom  had  clever  children.  Still — did  I  know? — she 
would  have  been  happier,  much  happier,  if  he  had  n't 
been  in  public  life ;  if  he  and  she  could  have  hidden 
themselves  away  somewhere,  with  their  books  and 
music,  and  she  could  have  had  it  all  to  herself:  his 
cleverness,  his  learning,  his  immense  unbounded  good 
ness.  For  no  one  knew  how  good  he  was ;  no  one  but 
herself.  Everybody  recognized  his  cleverness,  his  bril 
liant  abilities ;  even  his  enemies  had  to  admit  his  ex 
traordinary  intellectual  gifts,  and  hated  him  the  worse, 
of  course,  for  the  admission ;  but  no  one,  no  one  could 
guess  what  he  was  at  home.  She  had  heard  of  great  men 
who  were  always  giving  gala  performances  in  public, 
but  whose  wives  and  daughters  saw  only  the  empty 
theatre,  with  the  footlights  out  and  the  scenery 
stacked  in  the  wings ;  but  with  him  it  was  just  the 
[241] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

other  way :  wonderful  as  he  was  in  public,  in  society, 
she  sometimes  felt  he  wasn't  doing  himself  justice — 
he  was  so  much  more  wonderful  at  home.  It  was  like 
carrying  a  guilty  secret  about  with  her:  his  friends, 
his  admirers,  would  never  forgive  her  if  they  found  out 
that  he  kept  all  his  best  things  for  her  ! 

I  don't  quite  know  what  I  felt  in  listening  to  her. 
I  was  chiefly  taken  up  with  leading  her  on  to  the 
point  I  had  in  view ;  but  even  through  my  personal 
preoccupation  I  remember  being  struck  by  the  fact 
that,  though  she  talked  foolishly,  she  did  n't  talk  like 
a  fool.  She  was  not  stupid ;  she  was  not  obtuse ;  one 
felt  that  her  impassive  surface  was  alive  with  delicate 
points  of  perception;  and  this  fact,  coupled  with  her 
crystalline  frankness,  flung  me  back  on  a  startled  re 
vision  of  my  impressions  of  her  father.  He  came  out  of 
the  test  more  monstrous  than  ever,  as  an  ugly  image 
reflected  in  clear  water  is  made  uglier  by  the  purity 
of  the  medium.  Even  then  I  felt  a  pang  at  the  use  to 
which  fate  had  put  the  mountain-pool  of  Miss  Yard's 
spirit,  and  an  uneasy  sense  that  my  own  reflection 
there  was  not  one  to  linger  over.  It  was  odd  that  I 
should  have  scrupled  to  deceive,  on  one  small  point, 
a  girl  already  so  hugely  cheated ;  perhaps  it  was  the 
completeness  of  her  delusion  that  gave  it  the  sanctity 
of  a  religious  belief.  At  any  rate,  a  distinct  sense  of 
discomfort  tempered  the  satisfaction  with  which,  a  day 
[242] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

or  two  later,  I   heard  from  her  that  her  father  had 
consented  to  give  me  a  few  sittings. 

I  'm  afraid  my  scruples  vanished  when  I  got  him 
before  my  easel.  He  was  immense,  and  he  was  unex 
plored.  From  my  point  of  view  he  'd  never  been  done 
before — I  was  his  Cortez.  As  he  talked  the  wonder 
grew.  His  daughter  came  with  him,  and  I  began  to 
think  she  was  right  in  saying  that  he  kept  his  best  for 
her.  It  was  n't  that  she  drew  him  out,  or  guided  the 
conversation ;  but  one  had  a  sense  of  delicate  vigilance, 
hardly  more  perceptible  than  one  of  those  atmospheric 
influences  that  give  the  pulses  a  happier  turn.  She  was 
a  vivifying  climate.  I  had  meant  to  turn  the  talk  to 
public  affairs,  but  it  slipped  toward  books  and  art,  and 
I  was  faintly  aware  of  its  being  kept  there  without 
undue  pressure.  Before  long  I  saw  the  value  of  the 
diversion.  It  was  easy  enough  to  get  at  the  political 
Vard :  the  other  aspect  was  rarer  and  more  instructive. 
His  daughter  had  described  him  as  a  scholar.  He 
was  n't  that,  of  course,  in  any  intrinsic  sense :  like 
most  men  of.  his  type  he  had  gulped  his  knowledge 
standing,  as  he  had  snatched  his  food  from  lunch- 
counters  ;  the  wonder  of  it  lay  in  his  extraordinary 
power  of  assimilation.  It  was  the  strangest  instance  of 
a  mind  to  which  erudition  had  given  force  and  fluency 
without  culture ;  his  learning  had  not  educated  his 
perceptions:  it  was  an  implement  serving  to  slash 
[243] 


THE    PORTRAIT 

others  rather  than  to  polish  himself.  I  have  said  that 
at  first  sight  he  was  immense ;  but  as  I  studied  him  he 
began  to  lessen  under  my  scrutiny.  His  depth  was  a 
false  perspective  painted  on  a  wall. 

It  was  there  that  my  difficulty  lay :  I  had  prepared 
too  big  a  canvas  for  him.  Intellectually  his  scope  was 
considerable,  but  it  was  like  the  digital  reach  of  a  me 
diocre  pianist — it  didn't  make  him  a  great  musician. 
And  morally  he  was  n't  bad  enough ;  his  corruption 
was  n't  sufficiently  imaginative  to  be  interesting.  It  was 
not  so  much  a  means  to  an  end  as  a  kind  of  virtuosity 
practised  for  its  own  sake,  like  a  highly-developed 
skill  in  cannoning  billiard  balls.  After  all,  the  point  of 
view  is  what  gives  distinction  to  either  vice  or  virtue : 
a  morality  with  ground-glass  windows  is  no  duller  than 
a  narrow  cynicism. 

His  daughter's  presence — she  always  came  with 
him — gave  unintentional  emphasis  to  these  conclu 
sions  ;  for  where  she  was  richest  he  was  naked.  She 
had  a  deep-rooted  delicacy  that  drew  color  and  per 
fume  from  the  very  centre  of  her  being :  his  senti 
ments,  good  or  bad,  were  as  detachable  as  his  cuffs. 
Thus  her  nearness,  planned,  as  I  guessed,  with  the 
tender  intention  of  displaying,  elucidating  him,  ot 
making  him  accessible  in  detail  to  my  dazzled  per 
ceptions — this  pious  design  in  fact  defeated  itself.  She 
made  him  appear  at  his  best,  but  she  cheapened  that 
[244] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

best  by  her  proximity.  For  the  man  was  vulgar  to  the 
core ;  vulgar  in  spite  of  his  force  and  magnitude ;  thin, 
hollow,  spectacular;  a  lath-and-plaster  bogey — 

Did  she  suspect  it  ?  I  think  not — then.  He  was 
wrapped  in  her  impervious  faith  .  .  .  The  papers? 
Oh,  their  charges  were  set  down  to  political  rivalry ; 
and  the  only  people  she  saw  were  his  hangers-on,  or 
the  fashionable  set  who  had  taken  him  up  for  their 
amusement.  Besides,  she  would  never  have  found  out 
in  that  way :  at  a  direct  accusation  her  resentment 
would  have  flamed  up  and  smothered  her  judgment. 
If  the  truth  came  to  her,  it  would  come  through 
knowing  intimately  some  one — different ;  through — 
how  shall  I  put  it? — an  imperceptible  shifting  of 
her  centre  of  gravity.  My  besetting  fear  was  that  I 
could  n't  count  on  her  obtuseness.  She  was  n't  what 
is  called  clever ;  she  left  that  to  him ;  but  she  was 
exquisitely  good ;  and  now  and  then  she  had  intuitive 
felicities  that  frightened  me.  Do  I  make  you  see  her? 
We  fellows  can  explain  better  with  the  brush ;  I 
don't  know  how  to  mix  my  words  or  lay  them  on. 
She  wasn't  clever;  but  her  heart  thought — that's 
all  I  can  say  .  .  . 

If  she  'd  been  stupid  it  would  have  been  easy 
enough :  I  could  have  painted  him  as  he  was.  Could 
have  ?  I  did — brushed  the  face  in  one  day  from  mem 
ory  ;  it  was  the  very  man !  I  painted  it  out  before  she 
[245] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

came :  I  could  n't  bear  to  have  her  see  it.  I  had  the 
feeling  that  I  held  her  faith  in  him  in  my  hands,  carry 
ing  it  like  a  brittle  object  through  a  jostling  mob ;  a 
hair's-breadth  swerve  and  it  was  in  splinters. 

When  she  wasn't  there  I  tried  to  reason  myself 
out  of  these  subtleties.  My  business  was  to  paint 
Vard  as  he  was — if  his  daughter  didn't  mind  his 
looks,  why  should  I  ?  The  opportunity  was  magnificent 
—  I  knew  that  by  the  way  his  face  had  leapt  out  of 
the  canvas  at  my  first  touch.  It  would  have  been  a 
big  thing.  Before  every  sitting  I  swore  to  myself  I  'd 
do  it ;  then  she  came,  and  sat  near  him,  and  I — didn't. 

I  knew  that  before  long  she  'd  notice  I  was  shirking 
the  face.  Vard  himself  took  little  interest  in  the  por 
trait,  but  she  watched  me  closely,  and  one  day  when 
the  sitting  was  over  she  stayed  behind  and  asked  me 
when  I  meant  to  begin  what  she  called  "the  like 
ness."  I  guessed  from  her  tone  that  the  embarrass 
ment  was  all  on  my  side,  or  that  if  she  felt  any  it 
was  at  having  to  touch  a  vulnerable  point  in  my 
pride.  Thus  far  the  only  doubt  that  troubled  her  was 
a  distrust  of  my  ability.  Well,  I  put  her  off  with  any 
rot  you  please :  told  her  she  must  trust  me,  must  let 
me  wait  for  the  inspiration ;  that  some  day  the  face 
would  come ;  I  should  see  it  suddenly — feel  it  under 
my  brush  .  .  .  The  poor  child  believed  me :  you  can 
make  a  woman  believe  almost  anything  she  doesn't 
[246] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

quite  understand.  She  was  abashed  at  her  philistinism, 
and  begged  me  not  to  tell  her  father — he  would  make 
such  fun  of  her! 

After  that — well,  the  sittings  went  on.  Not  many, 
of  course ;  Vard  was  too  busy  to  give  me  much  time. 
Still,  I  could  have  done  him  ten  times  over.  Never  had 
I  found  my  formula  with  such  ease,  such  assurance ; 
there  were  no  hesitations,  no  obstructions — the  face 
was  there,  waiting  for  me ;  at  times  it  almost  shaped 
itself  on  the  canvas.  Unfortunately  Miss  Vard  was 
there  too  .  .  . 

All  this  time  the  papers  were  busy  with  the  viaduct 
scandal.  The  outcry  was  getting  louder.  You  remember 
the  circumstances?  One  of  Yard's  associates — Bard- 
well,  wasn't  it? — threatened  disclosures.  The  rival 
machine  got  hold  of  him,  the  Independents  took  him 
to  their  bosom,  and  the  press  shrieked  for  an  investi 
gation.  It  was  not  the  first  storm  Vard  had  weathered, 
and  his  face  wore  just  the  right  shade  of  cool  vigil 
ance  ;  he  was  n't  the  man  to  fall  into  the  mistake  of 
appearing  too  easy.  His  demeanor  would  have  been 
superb  if  it  had  been  inspired  by  a  sense  of  his  own 
strength ;  but  it  struck  me  rather  as  based  on  contempt 
for  his  antagonists.  Success  is  an  inverted  telescope 
through  which  one's  enemies  are  apt  to  look  too  small 
and  too  remote.  As  for  Miss  Vard,  her  serenity  was 
undiminished ;  but  I  half-detected  a  defiance  in  her 
[247] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

unruffled  sweetness,  and  during  the  last  sittings  I  had 
the  factitious  vivacity  of  a  hostess  who  hears  her  best 
china  crashing. 

One  day  it  did  crash :  the  head-lines  of  the  morning 
papers  shouted  the  catastrophe  at  me: — "The  Mon 
ster  forced  to  disgorge — Warrant  out  against  Vard— 
Bardwell  the  Boss's  Boomerang" — you  know  the  kind 
of  thing. 

When  I  had  read  the  papers  I  threw  them  down  and 
went  out.  As  it  happened,,  Vard  was  to  have  given  me 
a  sitting  that  morning;  but  there  would  have  been 
a  certain  irony  in  waiting  for  him.  I  wished  I  had 
finished  the  picture — I  wished  I'd  never  thought  of 
painting  it.  I  wanted  to  shake  off  the  whole  business, 
to  put  it  out  of  my  mind,  if  I  could :  I  had  the  feeling 
— I  don't  know  if  I  can  describe  it — that  there  was  a 
kind  of  disloyalty  to  the  poor  girl  in  my  even  acknow 
ledging  to  myself  that  I  knew  what  all  the  papers  were 
howling  from  the  housetops  .  .  . 

I  had  walked  for  an  hour  when  it  suddenly  occurred 
to  me  that  Miss  Vard  might,  after  all,  come  to  the 
studio  at  the  appointed  hour.  Why  should  she  ?  I  could 
conceive  of  no  reason ;  but  the  mere  thought  of  what, 
if  she  did  come,  my  absence  would  imply  to  her,  sent 
me  bolting  back  to  Twelfth  Street.  It  was  a  presenti 
ment,  if  you  like,  for  she  was  there. 

As  she  rose  to  meet  me  a  newspaper  slipped  from 
[248] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

her  hand :  I  'd  been  fool  enough,  when  I  went  out,  to 
leave  the  damned  things  lying  all  over  the  place. 

I  muttered  some  apology  for  being  late,  and  she 
said  reassuringly : 

"  But  my  father 's  not  here  yet." 

"Your  father — ?"  I  could  have  kicked  myself  for 
the  way  I  bungled  it ! 

"  He  went  out  very  early  this  morning,  and  left 
word  that  he  would  meet  me  here  at  the  usual 
hour." 

She  faced  me,  with  an  eye  full  of  bright  courage, 
across  the  newspaper  lying  between  us. 

"  He  ought  to  be  here  in  a  moment  now — he 's 
always  so  punctual.  But  my  watch  is  a  little  fast,  I 
think." 

She  held  it  out  to  me  almost  gaily,  and  I  was  just 
pretending  to  compare  it  with  mine,  when  there  was 
a  smart  rap  on  the  door  and  Vard  stalked  in.  There 
was  always  a  civic  majesty  in  his  gait,  an  air  of  having 
just  stepped  off  his  pedestal  and  of  dissembling  an  ora 
tion  in  his  umbrella ;  and  that  day  he  surpassed  him 
self.  Miss  Vard  had  turned  pale  at  the  knock ;  but  the 
mere  sight  of  him  replenished  her  veins,  and  if  she 
now  avoided  my  eye,  it  was  in  mere  pity  for  my  dis 
comfiture. 

I  was  in  fact  the  only  one  of  the  three  who  did  n't 
instantly  "  play  up  " ;  but  such  virtuosity  was  inspiring, 
[  249  ] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

and  by  the  time  Vard  had  thrown  off  his  coat  and 
dropped  into  a  senatorial  pose,  I  Mras  ready  to  pitch 
into  my  work.  I  swore  I  'd  do  his  face  then  and  there ; 
do  it  as  she  saw  it ;  she  sat  close  to  him,  and  I  had 
only  to  glance  at  her  while  I  painted — 

Vard  himself  was  masterly :  his  talk  rattled  through 
my  hesitations  and  embarrassments  like  a  brisk  north 
wester  sweeping  the  dry  leaves  from  its  path.  Even  his 
daughter  showed  the  sudden  brilliance  of  a  lamp  from 
which  the  shade  has  been  removed.  We  were  all  sur 
prisingly  vivid — it  felt,  somehow,  as  though  we  were 
being  photographed  by  flash-light  .  .  . 

It  was  the  best  sitting  we'd  ever  had — but  unfor 
tunately  it  did  n't  last  more  than  ten  minutes. 

It  was  Yard's  secretary  who  interrupted  us — a  slink 
ing  chap  called  Cornley,  who  burst  in,  as  white  as 
sweetbread,  with  the  face  of  a  depositor  who  hears  his 
bank  has  stopped  payment.  Miss  Vard  started  up  as  he 
entered,  but  caught  herself  together  and  dropped  back 
into  her  chair.  Vard,  who  had  taken  out  a  cigarette, 
held  the  tip  tranquilly  to  his  fusee. 

"You're  here,  thank  God!"  Cornley  cried.  "There's 
no  time  to  be  lost,  Mr.  Vard.  I  've  got  a  carriage  wait 
ing  round  the  corner  in  Thirteenth  Street — ' 

Vard  looked  at  the  tip  of  his  cigarette. 

"  A  carriage  in  Thirteenth  Street  ?  My  good  fellow, 
my  own  brougham  is  at  the  door." 
[250] 


THE    PORTRAIT 

"  I  know,  I  know — but  they  're  there  too,  sir ;  or 
they  will  be,  inside  of  a  minute.  For  God's  sake,  Mr. 
Vard,  don't  trifle! — There's  a  way  out  by  Thirteenth 
Street,  I  tell  you"  — 

"  Bard  well's  myrmidons,  eh  ?  "  said  Vard.  "  Help  me 
on  with  my  overcoat,  Cornley,  will  you?" 

Cornley's  teeth  chattered. 

te  Mr.  Vard,  your  best  friends  .  .  .  Miss  Vard,  won't 
you  speak  to  your  father  ? "  He  turned  to  me  hag 
gardly; — "We  can  get  out  by  the  back  way?" 

I  nodded. 

Vard  stood  towering — in  some  infernal  way  he 
seemed  literally  to  rise  to  the  situation — one  hand 
in  the  bosom  of  his  coat,  in  the  attitude  of  patriotism 
in  bronze.  I  glanced  at  his  daughter:  she  hung  on 
him  with  a  drowning  look.  Suddenly  she  straightened 
herself;  there  was  something  of  Vard  in  the  way  she 
faced  her  fears — a  kind  of  primitive  calm  we  drawing- 
room  folk  don't  have.  She  stepped  to  him  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  The  pause  had  n't  lasted  ten  seconds. 

"Father—"  she  said. 

Vard  threw  back  his  head  and  swept  the  studio  with 
a  sovereign  eye. 

"The  back  way,  Mr.  Vard,  the  back  way,"  Cornley 
whimpered.  "  For  God's  sake,  sir,  don't  lose  a  minute." 

Vard  transfixed  his  abject  henchman. 

"  I  have  never  yet  taken  the  back  way,"  he  eniin- 
[  251  ]  _ 


THE     PORTRAIT 

ciated ;  and,  with  a  gesture  matching  the  words,  he 
turned  to  me  and  bowed. 

"I  regret  the  disturbance" — and  he  walked  to  the 
door.  His  daughter  was  at  his  side,  alert,  transfigured. 

"Stay  here,  my  dear." 

"  Never ! " 

They  measured  each  other  an  instant ;  then  he  drew 
her  arm  in  his.  She  flung  back  one  look  at  me — a 
paean  of  victory — and  they  passed  out  with  Cornley  at 
their  heels. 

I  wish  I  'd  finished  the  face  then ;  I  believe  I  could 
have  caught  something  of  the  look  she  had  tried  to 
make  me  see  in  him.  Unluckily  I  was  too  excited  to 
work  that  day  or  the  next,  and  within  the  week  the 
whole  business  came  out.  If  the  indictment  wasn't  a 
put-up  job — and  on  that  I  believe  there  were  two 
opinions — all  that  followed  was.  You  remember  the 
farcical  trial,  the  packed  jury,  the  compliant  judge,  the 
triumphant  acquittal  ?  .  .  .  It 's  a  spectacle  that  always 
carries  conviction  to  the  voter :  Vard  was  never  more 
popular  than  after  his  "exoneration"  .  .  . 

I  didn't  see  Miss  Vard  for  weeks.  It  was  she  who 
came  to  me  at  length ;  came  to  the  studio  alone,  one 
afternoon  at  dusk.  She  had — what  shall  I  say? — a 
veiled  manner;  as  though  she  had  dropped  a  fine 
gauze  between  us.  I  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

She  glanced  about  the  room,  admiring  a  hawthorn 
[  252  ] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

vase  I  had  picked  up  at  auction.  Then,  after  a  pause, 
she  said  : 

"You  haven't  finished  the  picture?" 

"Not  quite,"  I  said. 

She  asked  to  see  it,  and  I  wheeled  out  the  easel 
and  threw  the  drapery  back. 

"Oh,"  she  murmured,  "you  haven't  gone  on  with 
the  face?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

She  looked  down  on  her  clasped  hands  and  up  at 
the  picture ;  not  once  at  me. 

"You — you're  going  to  finish  it?" 

"Of  course,"  I  cried,  throwing  the  revived  purpose 
into  my  voice.  By  God,  I  would  finish  it! 

The  merest  tinge  of  relief  stole  over  her  face,  faint 
as  the  first  thin  chirp  before  daylight. 

"  Is  it  so  very  difficult  ?  "  she  asked  tentatively. 

"Not  insuperably,  I  hope." 

She  sat  silent,  her  eyes  on  the  picture.  At  length, 
with  an  effort,  she  brought  out :  "  Shall  you  want  more 
sittings  ? " 

For  a  second  I  blundered  between  two  conflicting 
conjectures ;  then  the  truth  came  to  me  with  a  leap, 
and  I  cried  out,  "No,  no  more  sittings !" 

She  looked  up  at  me  then  for  the  first  time ;  looked 
too  soon,  poor  child ;  for  in  the  spreading  light  of  re 
assurance  that  made  her  eyes  like  a  rainy  dawn,  I  saw, 
[253] 


THE     PORTRAIT 

with  terrible  distinctness,  the  rout  of  her  disbanded 
hopes.  I  knew  that  she  knew  .  .  . 

I  finished  the  picture  and  sent  it  home  within  a 
week.  I  tried  to  make  it — what  you  see. — Too  late, 
you  say?  Yes — for  her;  but  not  for  me  or  for  the 
public.  If  she  could  be  made  to  feel,  for  a  day  longer, 
for  an  hour  even,  that  her  miserable  secret  was  a  se 
cret — why,  she  'd  made  it  seem  worth  while  to  me  to 
chuck  my  own  ambitions  for  that  .  .  . 

Lillo  rose,  and  taking  down  the  sketch  stood  looking 

at  it  in  silence. 

After  a  while  I  ventured,  "And  Miss  Vard — ?" 
He  opened  the  portfolio  and  put  the  sketch  back, 

tying  the  strings  with  deliberation.  Then,  turning  to 

relight  his  cigar  at  the  lamp,  he  said:  "She  died  last 

year,  thank  God." 


[254] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 


PROFESSOR  JOSLIN,  who,  as  our  readers  are  doubtless 
aware,  is  engaged  in  writing  the  life  of  Mrs.  Aubyn,  asks 
us  to  state  that  he  will  be  greatly  indebted  to  any  of  the 
"famous  novelist's  friends  who  will  furnish  him  with  information 
"concerning  the  period  previous  to  her  coming  to  England.  Mrs. 
"Aubyn  had  so  few  intimate  friends,  and  consequently  so  few 
"regular  correspondents,  that  letters  will  be  of  special  value. 
"Professor  Joslin's  address  is  10  Augusta  Gardens,  Kensington, 
"and  he  begs  us  to  say  that  he  will  promptly  return  any  docu- 
"ments  entrusted  to  him." 

GLENNARD  dropped  the  Spectator  and  sat  looking  into 
the  fire.  The  club  was  filling  up,  but  he  still  had  to  himself 
the  small  inner  room  with  its  darkening  outlook  down  the 
rain-streaked  prospect  of  Fifth  Avenue.  It  was  all  dull  and 
dismal  enough,  yet  a  moment  earlier  his  boredom  had  been 
perversely  tinged  by  a  sense  of  resentment  at  the  thought 
that,  as  things  were  going,  he  might  in  time  have  to  sur 
render  even  the  despised  privilege  of  boring  himself  within 
those  particular  four  walls.  It  was  not  that  he  cared  much 
for  the  club,  but  that  the  remote  contingency  of  having  to 
give  it  up  stood  to  him,  just  then,  perhaps  by  very  reason 
of  its  insignificance  and  remoteness,  for  the  symbol  of  his 
increasing  abnegations;  of  that  perpetual  paring-off  that 
[257] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

was  gradually  reducing  existence  to  the  naked  business  of 
keeping  himself  alive.  It  was  the  futility  of  his  multiplied 
shifts  and  privations  that  made  them  seem  unworthy  of  a 
high  attitude — the  sense  that,  however  rapidly  he  elimi 
nated  the  superfluous,  his  cleared  horizon  was  likely  to 
offer  no  nearer  view  of  the  one  prospect  toward  which 
he  strained.  To  give  up  things  hi  order  to  marry  the 
woman  one  loves  is  easier  than  to  give  them  up  without 
being  brought  appreciably  nearer  to  such  a  conclusion. 

Through  the  open  door  he  saw  young  Hollingsworth  rise 
with  a  yawn  from  the  ineffectual  solace  of  a  brandy-and- 
soda  and  transport  his  purposeless  person  to  the  window. 
Glennard  measured  his  course  with  a  contemptuous  eye. 
It  was  so  like  Hollingsworth  to  get  up  and  look  out  of  the 
window  just  as  it  was  growing  too  dark  to  see  anything  1 
There  was  a  man  rich  enough  to  do  what  he  pleased — had 
he  been  capable  of  being  pleased — yet  barred  from  all  con 
ceivable  achievement  by  his  own  impervious  dulness; 
while,  a  few  feet  off,  Glennard,  who  wanted  only  enough 
to  keep  a  decent  coat  on  his  back  and  a  roof  over  the  head 
of  the  woman  he  loved — Glennard,  who  had  sweated, 
toiled,  denied  himself  for  the  scant  measure  of  opportunity 
that  his  zeal  would  have  converted  into  a  kingdom — sat 
wretchedly  calculating  that,  even  when  he  had  resigned 
from  the  club,  and  knocked  off  his  cigars,  and  given  up  his 
Sundays  out  of  town,  he  would  still  be  no  nearer  to 
attainment. 

[258] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

The  Spectator  had  slipped  to  his  feet,  and  as  he  picked  it 
up  his  eye  fell  again  on  the  paragraph  addressed  to  the 
friends  of  Mrs.  Aubyn.  He  had  read  it  for  the  first  time 
with  a  scarcely  perceptible  quickening  of  attention:  her 
name  had  so  long  been  public  property  that  his  eye  passed 
it  unseeingly,  as  the  crowd  in  the  street  hurries  without  a 
glance  by  some  familiar  monument. 

"Information  concerning  the  period  previous  to  her 
coming  to  England.  .  .  ."  The  words  were  an  evocation. 
He  saw  her  again  as  she  had  looked  at  their  first  meeting, 
the  poor  woman  of  genius  with  her  long  pale  face  and  short 
sighted  eyes,  softened  a  little  by  the  grace  of  youth  and 
inexperience,  but  so  incapable  even  then  of  any  hold  upon 
the  pulses.  When  she  spoke,  indeed,  she  was  wonderful, 
more  wonderful,  perhaps,  than  when  later,  to  Glennard'S 
fancy  at  least,  the  consciousness  of  memorable  things  ut 
tered  seemed  to  take  from  even  her  most  intimate  speech 
the  perfect  bloom  of  privacy.  It  was  in  those  earliest  days, 
if  ever,  that  he  had  come  near  loving  her;  though  even  then 
his  sentiment  had  lived  only  in  the  intervals  of  its  expres 
sion.  Later,  when  to  be  loved  by  her  had  been  a  state  to 
touch  any  man's  imagination,  the  physical  reluctance  had, 
inexplicably,  so  overborne  the  intellectual  attraction,  that 
the  last  years  had  been,  to  both  of  them,  an  agony  of  con 
flicting  impulses.  Even  now,  if,  in  turning  over  old  papers 
his  hand  lit  on  her  letters,  the  touch  filled  him  with  inar 
ticulate  misery.  .  .  . 

f  2591 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"She  bad  so  few  intimate  friends  .  .  .  that  letters  will 
be  of  special  value."  So  few  intimate  friends !  For  years 
she  had  had  but  one;  one  who  in  the  last  years  had  requited 
her  wonderful  pages,  her  tragic  outpourings  of  love,  hu 
mility  and  pardon,  with  the  scant  phrases  by  which  a 
man  evades  the  vulgarest  of  sentimental  importunities. 
He  had  been  a  brute  in  spite  of  himself,  and  sometimes, 
now  that  the  remembrance  of  her  face  had  faded,  and  only 
her  voice  and  words  remained  with  him,  he  chafed  at  his 
own  inadequacy,  his  stupid  inability  to  rise  to  the  height 
of  her  passion.  His  egoism  was  not  of  a  kind  to  mirror  its 
complacency  in  the  adventure.  To  have  been  loved  by  the 
most  brilliant  woman  of  her  day,  and  to  have  been  in 
capable  of  loving  her,  seemed  to  him,  in  looking  back,  de 
risive  evidence  of  his  limitations;  and  his  remorseful  ten 
derness  for  her  memory  was  complicated  with  a  sense  of 
irritation  against  her  for  having  given  him  once  for  all  the 
measure  of  his  emotional  capacity.  It  was  not  often,  how 
ever,  that  he  thus  probed  the  past.  The  public,  in  taking 
possession  of  Mrs.  Aubyn,  had  eased  his  shoulders  of  their 
burden.  There  was  something  fatuous  in  an  attitude  of 
sentimental  apology  toward  a  memory  already  classic:  to 
reproach  one's  self  for  not  having  loved  Margaret  Aubyn 
was  a  good  deal  like  being  disturbed  by  an  inability  to 
admire  the  Venus  of  Milo.  From  her  cold  niche  of  fame  she 
looked  down  ironically  enough  on  his  self-flagellations. 
.  .  .  It  was  only  when  he  came  on  something  that  belonged 
[  260  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

to  her  that  he  felt  a  sudden  renewal  of  the  old  feeling,  the 
strange  dual  impulse  that  drew  him  to  her  voice  but  drove 
him  from  her  hand,  so  that  even  now,  at  sight  of  anything 
she  had  touched,  his  heart  contracted  painfully.  It  hap 
pened  seldom  nowadays.  Her  little  presents,  one  by  one, 
had  disappeared  from  his  room,  and  her  letters,  kept  from 
some  unacknowledged  puerile  vanity  in  the  possession  of 
such  treasures,  seldom  came  beneath  his  hand.  .  .  . 

"Her  letters  will  be  of  special  value — "  Her  letters ! 
Why,  he  must  have  hundreds  of  them — enough  to  fill  a 
volume.  Sometimes  it  used  to  seem  to  him  that  they  came 
with  every  post — he  used  to  avoid  looking  in  his  letter-box 
when  he  came  home  to  his  rooms — but  her  writing  seemed 
to  spring  out  at  him  as  he  put  his  key  in  the  door. 

He  stood  up  and  strolled  into  the  other  room.  Hollings- 
worth,  lounging  away  from  the  window,  had  joined  him 
self  to  a  languidly  convivial  group  of  men,  to  whom,  in 
phrases  as  halting  as  though  they  struggled  to  define  an 
ultimate  idea,  he  was  expounding  the  cursed  nuisance  of 
living  in  a  hole  with  such  a  damned  climate  that  one  had 
to  get  out  of  it  by  February,  with  the  contingent  difficulty 
of  there  being  no  place  to  take  one's  yacht  to  in  winter 
but  that  other  played-out  hole,  the  Riviera.  From  the  out 
skirts  of  this  group  Glennard  wandered  to  another,  where 
a  voice  as  different  as  possible  from  Hollingsworth's  color 
less  organ  dominated  another  circle  of  languid  listeners. 

"Come  and  hear  Dinslow  talk  about  his  patent:  admis- 
[261] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

sion  free,'*  one  of  the  men  sang  out  in  a  tone  of  mock 
resignation. 

Dinslow  turned  to  Glennard  the  confident  pugnacity  of 
his  smile.  "Give  it  another  six  months  and  it  '11  be  talking 
about  itself,"  he  declared.  "It 's  pretty  nearly  articulate 
now." 

"Can  it  say  papa?"  someone  else  inquired. 

Dinslow's  smile  broadened.  "You  '11  be  deuced  glad  to 
say  papa  to  it  a  year  from  now,"  he  retorted.  "It  '11  be 
able  to  support  even  you  in  affluence.  Look  here,  now,  just 
let  me  explain  to  you — " 

Glennard  moved  away  impatiently.  The  men  at  the 
club — all  but  those  who  were  "in  it" — were  proverbially 
"tired"  of  Dinslow's  patent,  and  none  more  so  than  Glen 
nard,  whose  knowledge  of  its  merits  made  it  loom  large  in 
the  depressing  catalogue  of  lost  opportunities.  The  rela 
tions  between  the  two  men  had  always  been  friendly,  and 
Dinslow's  urgent  offers  to  "take  him  in  on  the  ground 
floor"  had  of  late  intensified  Glennard's  sense  of  his  own 
inability  to  meet  good  luck  half-way.  Some  of  the  men  who 
had  paused  to  listen  were  already  in  evening  clothes,  others 
on  their  way  home  to  dress;  and  Glennard,  with  an  accus 
tomed  twinge  of  humiliation,  said  to  himself  that  if  he  lin 
gered  among  them  it  was  in  the  miserable  hope  that  one 
of  the  number  might  ask  him  to  dine.  Miss  Trent  had  told 
him  that  she  was  to  go  to  the  opera  that  evening  with  her 
rich  aunt;  and  if  he  should  have  the  luck  to  pick  up  a  din- 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

ner  invitation  he  might  join  her  there  without  extra  outlay. 

He  moved  about  the  room,  lingering  here  and  there  in  a 
tentative  affectation  of  interest;  but  though  the  men 
greeted  him  pleasantly,  no  one  asked  him  to  dine.  Doubt 
less  they  were  all  engaged,  these  men  who  could  afford  to 
pay  for  their  dinners,  who  did  not  have  to  hunt  for  invi 
tations  as  a  beggar  rummages  for  a  crust  in  an  ash-barrel ! 
But  no — as  Hollingsworth  left  the  lessening  circle  about 
the  table,  an  admiring  youth  called  out,  "Holly,  stop  and 
dine!" 

Hollingsworth  turned  on  him  the  crude  countenance 
that  looked  like  the  wrong  side  of  a  more  finished  face. 
"Sorry  I  can't.  I  'm  in  for  a  beastly  banquet." 

Glennard  threw  himself  into  an  arm-chair.  Why  go 
home  in  the  rain  to  dress  ?  It  was  folly  to  take  a  cab  to  the 
opera,  it  was  worse  folly  to  go  there  at  all.  His  perpetual 
meetings  with  Alexa  Trent  were  as  unfair  to  the  girl  as 
they  were  unnerving  to  himself.  Since  he  could  n't  marry 
her,  it  was  time  to  stand  aside  and  give  a  better  man  the 
chance — and  his  thought  admitted  the  ironical  implication 
that  in  the  terms  of  expediency  the  phrase  might  stand  for 
Hollingsworth. 


263 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 


T  T  E  dined  alone  and  walked  home  to  his  rooms  in  the 
rain.  As  he  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue  he  caught  the 
wet  gleam  of  carriages  on  their  way  to  the  opera,  and  he 
took  the  first  side  street,  in  a  moment  of  irritation  against 
the  petty  restrictions  that  thwarted  every  impulse.  It  was 
ridiculous  to  give  up  the  opera,  not  because  one  might  pos 
sibly  be  bored  there,  but  because  one  must  pay  for  the 
experiment. 

In  his  sitting-room,  the  tacit  connivance  of  the  inanimate 
had  centred  the  lamplight  on  a  photograph  of  Alexa  Trent, 
placed,  in  the  obligatory  silver  frame,  just  where,  as  mem 
ory  officiously  reminded  him,  Margaret  Aubyn's  picture 
had  long  throned  in  its  stead.  Miss  Trent's  features  cruelly 
justified  the  usurpation.  She  had  the  kind  of  beauty  that 
comes  of  a  happy  accord  of  face  and  spirit.  It  is  not  given 
to  many  to  have  the  lips  and  eyes  of  their  rarest  mood,  and 
some  women  go  through  life  behind  a  mask  expressing  only 
their  anxiety  about  the  butcher's  bill  or  their  inability  to 
see  a  joke.  With  Miss  Trent,  face  and  mind  had  the  same 
high  serious  contour.  She  looked  like  a  throned  Justice  by 
some  grave  Florentine  painter;  and  it  seemed  to  Glennard 
that  her  most  salient  attribute,  or  that  at  least  to  which  her 
conduct  gave  most  consistent  expression,  was  a  kind  of 
passionate  justness — the  intuitive  feminine  justness  that 
[264] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

is  so  much  rarer  than  a  reasoned  impartiality.  Circum 
stances  had  tragically  combined  to  develop  this  instinct 
into  a  conscious  habit.  She  had  seen  more  than  most  girls 
of  the  shabby  side  of  life,  of  the  perpetual  tendency  of  want 
to  cramp  the  noblest  attitude.  Poverty  and  misfortune  had 
overhung  her  childhood,  and  she  had  none  of  the  pretty 
delusions  about  life  that  are  supposed  to  be  the  crowning 
grace  of  girlhood.  This  very  competence,  which  gave  her  a 
touching  reasonableness,  made  Glennard's  situation  more 
difficult  than  if  he  had  aspired  to  a  princess.  Between  them 
they  asked  so  little — they  knew  so  well  how  to  make  that 
little  do;  but  they  understood  also,  and  she  especially  did 
not  for  a  moment  let  him  forget,  that  without  that  little 
the  future  they  dreamed  of  was  impossible. 

The  sight  of  her  photograph  quickened  Glennard's  exas 
peration.  He  was  sick  and  ashamed  of  the  part  he  was  play 
ing.  He  had  loved  her  now  for  two  years,  with  the  tranquil 
tenderness  that  gathers  depth  and  volume  as  it  nears  ful 
filment;  he  knew  that  she  would  wait  for  him — but  the 
certitude  was  an  added  pang.  There  are  times  when  the 
constancy  of  the  woman  one  cannot  marry  is  almost  as 
trying  as  that  of  the  woman  one  does  not  want  to. 

Glennard  turned  up  his  reading-lamp  and  stirred  the 
fire.  He  had  a  long  evening  before  him,  and  he  wanted  to 
crowd  out  thought  with  action.  He  had  brought  some 
papers  from  his  office  and  he  spread  them  out  on  his  table 
and  squared  himself  to  the  task.  .  .  . 
[265] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

It  must  have  been  an  hour  later  that  he  found  himself 
automatically  fitting  a  key  into  a  locked  drawer.  He  had 
no  more  notion  than  a  somnambulist  of  the  mental  process 
that  had  led  up  to  this  action.  He  was  just  dimly  aware  of 
having  pushed  aside  the  papers  and  the  heavy  calf  volumes 
that  a  moment  before  had  bounded  his  horizon,  and  of 
laying  in  their  place,  without  a  trace  of  conscious  volition, 
the  parcel  he  had  taken  from  the  drawer. 

The  letters  were  tied  in  packets  of  thirty  or  forty.  There 
were  a  great  many  packets.  On  some  of  the  envelopes  the 
ink  was  fading;  on  others,  which  bore  the  English  post 
mark,  it  was  still  fresh.  She  had  been  dead  hardly  three 
years,  and  she  had  written,  at  lengthening  intervals,  to  the 
last.  .  .  . 

He  undid  one  of  the  early  packets — little  notes  written 
during  their  first  acquaintance  at  Hillbridge.  Glennard,  on 
leaving  college,  had  begun  life  in  his  uncle's  law  office  in 
the  old  university  town.  It  was  there  that,  at  the  house  of 
her  father,  Professor  Forth,  he  had  first  met  the  young 
lady  then  chiefly  distinguished  for  having,  after  two  years 
of  a  conspicuously  unhappy  marriage,  returned  to  the  pro 
tection  of  the  paternal  roof. 

Mrs.  Aubyn  was  at  that  time  an  eager  and  somewhat 
tragic  young  woman,  of  complex  mind  and  undeveloped 
manners,  whom  her  crude  experience  of  matrimony  had 
fitted  out  with  a  stock  of  generalizations  that  exploded  like 
bombs  in  the  academic  air  of  Hillbridge.  In  her  choice  of 
[266] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

a  husband  she  had  been  fortunate  enough,  if  the  paradox 
be  permitted,  to  light  on  one  so  signally  gifted  with  the 
faculty  of  putting  himself  in  the  wrong  that  her  leaving 
him  had  the  dignity  of  a  manifesto — made  her,  as  it  were, 
the  spokeswoman  of  outraged  wifehood.  In  this  light  she 
was  cherished  by  that  dominant  portion  of  Hillbridge  so 
ciety  which  was  least  indulgent  to  conjugal  differences,  and 
which  found  a  proportionate  pleasure  in  being  for  once 
able  to  feast  openly  on  a  dish  liberally  seasoned  with  the 
outrageous.  So  much  did  this  endear  Mrs.  Aubyn  to  the 
university  ladies,  that  they  were  disposed  from  the  first  to 
allow  her  more  latitude  of  speech  and  action  than  the  ill- 
used  wife  was  generally  accorded  in  Hillbridge,  where  mis 
fortune  was  still  regarded  as  a  visitation  designed  to  put 
people  in  their  proper  place  and  make  them  feel  the  superi 
ority  of  their  neighbors.  The  young  woman  so  privileged 
combined  with  a  kind  of  personal  shyness  an  intellectual 
audacity  that  was  like  a  deflected  impulse  of  coquetry :  one 
felt  that  if  she  had  been  prettier  she  would  have  had  emo 
tions  instead  of  ideas.  She  was  in  fact  even  then  what  she 
had  always  remained:  a  genius  capable  of  the  acutest  gen 
eralizations,  but  curiously  undiscerning  where  her  personal 
susceptibilities  were  concerned.  Her  psychology  failed  her 
just  where  it  serves  most  women,  and  one  felt  that  her 
brains  would  never  be  a  guide  to  her  heart.  Of  all  this, 
however,  Glennard  thought  little  in  the  first  year  of  their 
acquaintance.  He  was  at  an  age  when  all  the  gifts  and 
[267] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

graces  are  but  so  much  undiscriminated  food  to  the  raven 
ing  egoism  of  youth.  In  seeking  Mrs.  Aubyn's  company  he 
was  prompted  by  an  intuitive  taste  for  the  best  as  a  pledge 
of  his  own  superiority.  The  sympathy  of  the  cleverest 
woman  in  Hillbridge  was  balm  to  his  craving  for  distinc 
tion;  it  was  public  confirmation  of  his  secret  sense  that  he 
was  cut  out  for  a  bigger  place.  It  must  not  be  understood 
that  Glennard  was  vain.  Vanity  contents  itself  with  the 
coarsest  diet;  there  is  no  palate  so  fastidious  as  that  of 
self-distrust.  To  a  youth  of  Glennard's  aspirations  the  en 
couragement  of  a  clever  woman  stood  for  the  symbol  of  all 
success.  Later,  when  he  had  begun  to  feel  his  way,  to  gain 
a  foothold,  he  would  not  need  such  support;  but  it  served 
to  carry  him  lightly  and  easily  over  what  is  often  a  period 
of  insecurity  and  discouragement. 

It  would  be  unjust,  however,  to  represent  his  interest  in 
Mrs.  Aubyn  as  a  matter  of  calculation.  It  was  as  instinc 
tive  as  love,  and  it  missed  being  love  by  just  such  a  hair 
breadth  deflection  from  the  line  of  beauty  as  had  deter 
mined  the  curve  of  Mrs.  Aubyn's  lips.  When  they  met  she 
had  just  published  her  first  novel,  and  Glennard,  who  after 
ward  had  an  ambitious  man's  impatience  of  distinguished 
women,  was  young  enough  to  be  dazzled  by  the  semi-pub 
licity  it  gave  her.  It  was  the  kind  of  book  that  makes 
elderly  ladies  lower  their  voices  and  call  each  other  "my 
dear"  when  they  furtively  discuss  it;  and  Glennard  exulted 
in  the  superior  knowledge  of  the  world  that  enabled  him 
[  268  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

to  take  as  a  matter  of  course  sentiments  over  which  the 
university  shook  its  head.  Still  more  delightful  was  it  to 
hear  Mrs.  Aubyn  waken  the  echoes  of  academic  drawing- 
rooms  with  audacities  surpassing  those  of  her  printed  page. 
Her  intellectual  independence  gave  a  touch  of  comrade 
ship  to  their  intimacy,  prolonging  the  illusion  of  college 
friendships  based  on  a  joyous  interchange  of  heresies. 
Mrs.  Aubyn  and  Glennard  represented  to  each  other  the 
augur's  wink  behind  the  Hillbridge  idol:  they  walked  to 
gether  in  that  light  of  young  omniscience  from  which  fate 
so  curiously  excludes  one's  elders. 

Husbands,  who  are  notoriously  inopportune,  may  even 
die  inopportunely,  and  this  was  the  revenge  that  Mr. 
Aubyn,  some  two  years  after  her  return  to  Hillbridge, 
took  upon  his  injured  wife.  He  died  precisely  at  the  mo 
ment  when  Glennard  was  beginning  to  criticise  her.  It  was 
not  that  she  bored  him;  she  did  what  was  infinitely  worse 
— she  made  him  feel  his  inferiority.  The  sense  of  mental 
equality  had  been  gratifying  to  his  raw  ambition;  but  as 
his  self-knowledge  defined  itself,  his  understanding  of  her 
also  increased;  and  if  man  is  at  times  indirectly  flattered 
by  the  moral  superiority  of  woman,  her  mental  ascendency 
is  extenuated  by  no  such  oblique  tribute  to  his  powers. 
The  attitude  of  looking  up  is  a  strain  on  the  muscles;  and 
it  was  becoming  more  and  more  Glennard's  opinion  that 
brains,  in  a  woman,  should  be  merely  the  obverse  of 
beauty.  To  beauty  Mrs.  Aubyn  could  lay  no  claim;  and 
[  269  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

while  she  had  enough  prettiness  to  exasperate  him  by  her 
incapacity  to  make  use  of  it,  she  seemed  invincibly  igno 
rant  of  any  of  the  little  artifices  whereby  women  contrive 
to  hide  their  defects  and  even  to  turn  them  into  graces. 
Her  dress  never  seemed  a  part  of  her;  all  her  clothes  had 
an  impersonal  air,  as  though  they  had  belonged  to  some 
one  else  and  been  borrowed  in  an  emergency  that  had 
somehow  become  chronic.  She  was  conscious  enough  of  her 
deficiencies  to  try  to  amend  them  by  rash  imitations  of  the 
most  approved  models;  but  no  woman  who  does  not  dress 
well  intuitively  will  ever  do  so  by  the  light  of  reason,  and 
Mrs.  Aubyn's  plagiarisms,  to  borrow  a  metaphor  of  her 
trade,  somehow  never  seemed  to  be  incorporated  with  the 
text. 

Genius  is  of  small  use  to  a  woman  who  does  not  know 
how  to  do  her  hair.  The  fame  that  came  to  Mrs.  Aubyn 
with  her  second  book  left  Glennard's  imagination  un 
touched,  or  had  at  most  the  negative  effect  of  removing 
her  still  farther  from  the  circle  of  his  contracting  sympa 
thies.  We  are  all  the  sport  of  time;  and  fate  had  so  per 
versely  ordered  the  chronology  of  Margaret  Aubyn's  ro 
mance  that  when  her  husband  died  Glennard  felt  as  though 
he  had  lost  a  friend. 

It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  be  needlessly  unkind;  and 

though  he  was  in  the  impregnable  position  of  the  man  who 

has  given  a  woman  no  more  definable  claim  on  him  than 

that  of  letting  her  fancy  that  he  loves  her,  he  would  not  for 

[270] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

the  world  have  accentuated  his  advantage  by  any  betrayal 
of  indifference.  During  the  first  year  of  her  widowhood  their 
friendship  dragged  on  with  halting  renewals  of  sentiment, 
becoming  more  and  more  a  banquet  of  empty  dishes  from 
which  the  covers  were  never  removed;  then  Glennard  went 
to  New  York  to  live  and  exchanged  the  faded  pleasures  of 
intercourse  for  the  comparative  novelty  of  correspondence. 
Her  letters,  oddly  enough,  seemed  at  first  to  bring  her 
nearer  than  her  presence.  She  had  adopted,  and  she  suc 
cessfully  maintained,  a  note  as  affectionately  impersonal 
as  his  own;  she  wrote  ardently  of  her  work,  she  questioned 
him  about  his,  she  even  bantered  him  on  the  inevitable 
pretty  girl  who  was  certain  before  long  to  divert  the  cur 
rent  of  his  confidences.  To  Glennard,  who  was  almost  a 
stranger  in  New  York,  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Aubyn's  writing 
was  like  a  voice  of  reassurance  in  surroundings  as  yet 
insufficiently  aware  of  him.  His  vanity  found  a  retrospec 
tive  enjoyment  in  the  sentiment  his  heart  had  rejected, 
and  this  factitious  emotion  drove  him  once  or  twice  to  Hill- 
bridge,  whence,  after  scenes  of  evasive  tenderness,  he  re 
turned  dissatisfied  with  himself  and  her.  As  he  made  room 
for  himself  in  New  York  and  peopled  the  space  he  had 
cleared  with  the  sympathies  at  the  disposal  of  agreeable 
and  self-confident  young  men,  it  seemed  to  him  natural  to 
infer  that  Mrs.  Aubyn  had  refurnished  in  the  same  manner 
the  void  he  was  not  unwilling  his  departure  should  have 
left.  But  in  the  dissolution  of  sentimental  partnerships  it  is 
[271] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

seldom  that  both  associates  are  able  to  withdraw  their 
funds  at  the  same  time;  and  Glennard  gradually  learned 
that  he  stood  for  the  venture  on  which  Mrs.  Aubyn  had 
irretrievably  staked  her  all.  It  was  not  the  kind  of  figure 
he  cared  to  cut.  He  had  no  fancy  for  leaving  havoc  in  his 
wake  and  would  have  preferred  to  sow  a  quick  growth  of 
oblivion  in  the  spaces  wasted  by  his  unconsidered  inroads; 
but  if  he  supplied  the  seed,  it  was  clearly  Mrs.  Aubyn's 
business  to  see  to  the  raising  of  the  crop.  Her  attitude 
seemed  indeed  to  throw  his  own  reasonableness  into  dis- 
tincter  relief;  so  that  they  might  have  stood  for  thrift  and 
improvidence  in  an  allegory  of  the  affections. 

It  was  not  that  Mrs.  Aubyn  permitted  herself  to  be  a 
pensioner  on  his  bounty.  He  knew  she  had  no  wish  to  keep 
herself  alive  on  the  small  change  of  sentiment;  she  simply 
fed  on  her  own  funded  passion,  and  the  luxuries  it  allowed 
her  made  him,  even  then,  dimly  aware  that  she  had  the 
secret  of  an  inexhaustible  alchemy. 

Their  relations  remained  thus  negatively  tender  till  she 
suddenly  wrote  him  of  her  decision  to  go  abroad  to  live. 
Her  father  had  died,  she  had  no  near  ties  in  Hillbridge, 
and  London  offered  more  scope  than  New  York  to  her 
expanding  personality.  She  was  already  famous,  and  her 
laurels  were  yet  unharvested. 

For  a  moment  the  news  roused  Glennard  to  a  jealous 
sense  of  lost  opportunities.  He  wanted,  at  any  rate,  to 
reassert  his  power  before  she  made  the  final  effort  of  escape. 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

They  had  not  met  for  over  a  year,  but  of  course  he  could 
not  let  her  sail  without  seeing  her.  She  came  to  New  York 
the  day  before  her  departure,  and  they  spent  its  last  hours 
together.  Glennard  had  planned  no  course  of  action — he 
simply  meant  to  let  himself  drift.  They  both  drifted,  for 
a  long  time,  down  the  languid  current  of  reminiscence;  she 
seemed  to  sit  passive,  letting  him  push  his  way  back 
through  the  overgrown  channels  of  the  past.  At  length  she 
reminded  him  that  they  must  bring  their  explorations  to 
an  end.  He  rose  to  leave,  and  stood  looking  at  her  with  the 
same  uncertainty  in  his  heart.  He  was  tired  of  her  already 
— he  was  always  tired  of  her — yet  he  was  not  sure  that  he 
wanted  her  to  go. 

"I  may  never  see  you  again,"  he  said,  as  though  con 
fidently  appealing  to  her  compassion. 

Her  look  enveloped  him.  "And  I  shall  see  you  always 
— always!" 

"Why  go  then — r"  escaped  him. 

"To  be  nearer  you,"  she  answered;  and  the  words  dis 
missed  him  like  a  closing  door. 

The  door  was  never  to  reopen;  but  through  its  narrow 
crack  Glennard,  as  the  years  went  on,  became  more  and 
more  conscious  of  an  inextinguishable  light  directing  its 
small  ray  toward  the  past  which  consumed  so  little  of  his 
own  commemorative  oil.  The  reproach  was  taken  from 
this  thought  by  Mrs.  Aubyn's  gradual  translation  into 
terms  of  universality.  In  becoming  a  personage  she  so  nat- 
[  273  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

urally  ceased  to  be  a  person  that  Glennard  could  almost 
look  back  to  his  explorations  of  her  spirit  as  on  a  visit  to 
some  famous  shrine,  immortalized,  but  in  a  sense  dese 
crated,  by  popular  veneration. 

Her  letters  from  London  continued  to  come  with  the 
same  tender  punctuality;  but  the  altered  conditions  of  her 
life,  the  vistas  of  new  relationships  disclosed  by  every 
phrase,  made  her  communications  as  impersonal  as  a  piece 
of  journalism.  It  was  as  though  the  state,  the  world,  in 
deed,  had  taken  her  off  his  hands,  assuming  the  mainte 
nance  of  a  temperament  that  had  long  exhausted  his 
slender  store  of  reciprocity. 

In  the  retrospective  light  shed  by  the  letters  he  was 
blinded  to  their  specific  meaning.  He  was  not  a  man  who 
concerned  himself  with  literature,  and  they  had  been  to 
him,  at  first,  simply  the  extension  of  her  brilliant  talk, 
later  the  dreaded  vehicle  of  a  tragic  importunity.  He  knew, 
of  course,  that  they  were  wonderful;  that,  unlike  the  au 
thors  who  give  their  essence  to  the  public  and  keep  only  a 
dry  rind  for  their  friends,  Mrs.  Aubyn  had  stored  of  her 
rarest  vintage  for  this  hidden  sacrament  of  tenderness. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  he  had  been  oppressed,  humiliated 
almost,  by  the  multiplicity  of  her  allusions,  the  wide  scope 
of  her  interests,  her  persistence  in  forcing  her  super 
abundance  of  thought  and  emotion  into  the  shallow  re 
ceptacle  of  his  sympathy;  but  he  had  never  thought  of  the 
letters  objectively,  as  the  production  of  a  distinguished 
[274] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

woman;  had  never  measured  the  literary  significance  of 
her  oppressive  prodigality.  He  was  almost  frightened  now 
at  the  wealth  in  his  hands;  the  obligation  of  her  love  had 
never  weighed  on  him  like  this  gift  of  her  imagination:  it 
was  as  though  he  had  accepted  from  her  something  to 
which  even  a  reciprocal  tenderness  could  not  have  justified 
his  claim. 

He  sat  a  long  time  staring  at  the  scattered  pages  on  his 
desk;  and  in  the  sudden  realization  of  what  they  meant 
he  could  almost  fancy  some  alchemistic  process  changing 
them  to  gold  as  he  stared. 

He  had  the  sense  of  not  being  alone  in  the  room,  of  the 
presence  of  another  self  observing  from  without  the  stir 
ring  of  sub-conscious  impulses  that  sent  flushes  of  humilia 
tion  to  his  forehead.  At  length  he  stood  up,  and  with  the 
gesture  of  a  man  who  wishes  to  give  outward  expression  to 
his  purpose — to  establish,  as  it  were,  a  moral  alibi — swept 
the  letters  into  a  heap  and  carried  them  toward  the  grate. 
But  it  would  have  taken  too  long  to  burn  all  the  packets. 
He  turned  back  to  the  table  and  one  by  one  fitted  the  pages 
into  their  envelopes;  then  he  tied  up  the  letters  and  put 
them  back  into  the  locked  drawer. 


275  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 


III 


TT  was  one  of  the  laws  of  Glennard's  intercourse  with 
Miss  Trent  that  he  always  went  to  see  her  the  day 
after  he  had  resolved  to  give  her  up.  There  was  a  special 
charm  about  the  moments  thus  snatched  from  the  jaws 
of  renunciation;  and  his  sense  of  their  significance  was  on 
this  occasion  so  keen  that  he  hardly  noticed  the  added 
gravity  of  her  welcome. 

His  feeling  for  her  had  become  so  vital  a  part  of  him 
that  her  nearness  had  the  quality  of  imperceptibly  read 
justing  his  point  of  view,  of  making  the  jumbled  phenom 
ena  of  experience  fall  at  once  into  a  rational  perspective. 
In  this  redistribution  of  values  the  sombre  retrospect  of 
the  previous  evening  shrank  to  a  mere  cloud  on  the  edge 
of  consciousness.  Perhaps  the  only  service  an  unloved 
woman  can  render  the  man  she  loves  is  to  enhance  and 
prolong  his  illusions  about  her  rival.  It  was  the  fate  of 
Margaret  Aubyn's  memory  to  serve  as  a  foil  to  Miss 
Trent's  presence,  and  never  had  the  poor  lady  thrown  her 
successor  into  more  vivid  relief. 

Miss  Trent  had  the  charm  of  still  waters  that  are  felt 
to  be  renewed  by  rapid  currents.  Her  attention  spread  a 
tranquil  surface  to  the  demonstrations  of  others,  and  it 
was  only  in  days  of  storm  that  one  felt  the  pressure  of  the 
tides.  This  inscrutable  composure  was  perhaps  her  chief 
[276] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

grace  in  Glennard's  eyes.  Reserve,  in  some  natures,  implies 
merely  the  locking  of  empty  rooms  or  the  dissimulation  of 

awkward  encumbrances;  but  Miss  Trent's  reticence  was 

f 

to  Glennard  like  the  closed  door  to  the  sanctuary,  and  his 
certainty  of  divining  the  hidden  treasure  made  him  content 
to  remain  outside  in  the  happy  expectancy  of  the  neophyte. 

"You  did  n't  come  to  the  opera  last  night,"  she  began, 
in  the  tone  that  seemed  always  rather  to  record  a  fact  than 
to  offer  a  reflection  on  it. 

He  answered  with  a  discouraged  gesture.  "What  was  the 
use  ?  We  could  n't  have  talked." 

"Not  as  well  as  here,"  she  assented;  adding,  after  a 
meditative  pause,  "As  you  did  n't  come  I  talked  to  Aunt 
Virginia  instead." 

"Ah!"  he  returned,  the  fact  being  hardly  striking 
enough  to  detach  him  from  the  contemplation  of  her  hands, 
which  had  fallen,  as  was  their  wont,  into  an  attitude  full  of 
plastic  possibilities.  One  felt  them  to  be  hands  that,  moving 
only  to  some  purpose,  were  capable  of  intervals  of  serene 
inaction. 

"We  had  a  long  talk,"  Miss  Trent  went  on;  and  she 
waited  again  before  adding,  with  the  increased  absence  of 
stress  that  marked  her  graver  communications,  "Aunt 
Virginia  wants  me  to  go  abroad  with  her." 

Glennard  looked  up  with  a  start.  "Abroad?  When?" 

"Now — next  month.  To  be  gone  two  years." 

He  permitted  himself  a  movement  of  tender  derision. 
[  2771 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"Does  she  really?  Well,  I  want  you  to  go  abroad  with  me 
— for  any  number  of  years.  Which  offer  do  you  accept?" 

"Only  one  of  them  seems  to  require  immediate  consid 
eration,"  she  returned  with  a  smile. 

Glennard  looked  at  her  again.  "You  're  not  thinking 
of  it?" 

Her  gaze  dropped  and  she  unclasped  her  hands.  Her 
movements  were  so  rare  that  they  might  have  been  said 
to  italicize  her  words.  "Aunt  Virginia  talked  to  me  very 
seriously.  It  will  be  a  great  relief  to  mother  and  the  others 
to  have  me  provided  for  in  that  way  for  two  years.  I  must 
think  of  that,  you  know."  She  glanced  down  at  her  gown, 
which,  under  a  renovated  surface,  dated  back  to  the  first 
days  of  Glennard's  wooing.  "I  try  not  to  cost  much — but 
I  do." 

"Good  Lord!"  Glennard  groaned. 

They  sat  silent  till  at  length  she  gently  took  up  the  argu 
ment.  "As  the  eldest,  you  know,  I  'm  bound  to  consider 
these  things.  Women  are  such  a  burden.  Jim  does  what  he 
can  for  mother,  but  with  his  own  children  to  provide  for 
it  is  n't  very  much.  You  see  we  're  all  poor  together." 

"Your  aunt  is  n't.  She  might  help  your  mother." 

"She  does — in  her  own  way." 

"Exactly — that 's  the  rich  relation  all  over!  You  may 
be  miserable  in  any  way  you  like,  but  if  you  're  to  be 
happy,  you  must  be  so  in  her  way — and  in  her  old  gowns." 

"I  could  be  very  happy  in  Aunt  Virginia's  old  gowns," 
Miss  Trent  interposed. 

[  278] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"Abroad,  you  mean?'* 

"I  mean  wherever  I  felt  that  I  was  helping.  And  my 
going  abroad  will  help." 

"Of  course — I  see  that.  And  I  see  your  considerateness 
in  putting  its  advantages  negatively." 

"Negatively?" 

"In  dwelling  simply  on  what  the  going  will  take  you 
from,  not  on  what  it  will  bring  you  to.  It  means  a  lot  to  a 
woman,  of  course,  to  get  away  from  a  life  like  this."  He 
summed  up  in  a  disparaging  glance  the  background  of  in 
digent  furniture.  "The  question  is  how  you  '11  like  coming 
back  to  it." 

She  seemed  to  accept  the  full  consequences  of  his 
thought.  "I  only  know  I  don't  like  leaving  it." 

He  flung  back  sombrely,  "You  don't  even  put  it  con 
ditionally  then?" 

Her  gaze  deepened.  "On  what?" 

He  stood  up  and  walked  across  the  room.  Then  he  came 
back  and  paused  before  her.  "On  the  alternative  of 
marrying  me." 

The  slow  color — even  her  blushes  seemed  deliberate — 
rose  to  her  lower  lids;  her  lips  stirred,  but  the  words  re 
solved  themselves  into  a  smile  and  she  waited. 

He  took  another  turn,  with  the  thwarted  step  of  the 
man  whose  nervous  exasperation  escapes  through  his 
muscles. 

"And  to  think  that  in  fifteen  years  I  shall  have  a  big 
practice!" 

[279] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Her  eyes  triumphed  for  him.  "In  less !" 

"The  cursed  irony  of  it !  What  do  I  care  for  the  man  I 
shall  be  then  ?  It 's  slaving  one's  life  away  for  a  stranger !" 
He  took  her  hands  abruptly.  "You  '11  go  to  Cannes,  I  sup 
pose,  or  Monte  Carlo  ?  I  heard  Hollingsworth  say  to-day 
that  he  meant  to  take  his  yacht  over  to  the  Mediter 
ranean — " 

She  released  herself.  "If  you  think  that — " 

"I  don't.  I  almost  wish  I  did.  It  would  be  easier,  I  mean.'* 
He  broke  off  incoherently.  "I  believe  your  Aunt  Virginia 
does,  though.  She  somehow  connotes  Hollingsworth  and 
the  Mediterranean."  He  caught  her  hands  again.  "Alexa 
— if  we  could  manage  a  little  hole  somewhere  out  of 
town?" 

"Could  we?"  she  sighed,  half  yielding. 

"In  one  of  those  places  where  they  make  jokes  about 
the  mosquitoes,"  he  pressed  her.  "Could  you  get  on  with 
one  servant  ?  " 

"Could  you  get  on  without  varnished  boots?" 

"Promise  me  you  won't  go,  then !" 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  Stephen?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  stammered,  the  question  giving  un 
expected  form  to  his  intention.  "It 's  all  in  the  air  yet,  of 
course;  but  I  picked  up  a  tip  the  other  day — " 

"You're  not  speculating?"  she  cried,  with  a  kind  of 
superstitious  terror. 

"Lord,  no.  This  is  a  sure  thing — I  almost  wish  it  was  n't; 
[  280] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

I  mean  if  I  can  work  it — "  He  had  a  sudden  vision  of  the 
comprehensiveness  of  the  temptation.  If  only  he  had  been 
less  sure  of  Dinslow !  His  assurance  gave  the  situation  the 
base  element  of  safety. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  she  faltered. 

"Trust  me,  instead!"  he  adjured  her  with  sudden 
energy;  and  turning  on  her  abruptly,  "If  you  go,  you 
know,  you  go  free,"  he  concluded. 

She  drew  back,  paling  a  little.  "Why  do  you  make  it 
harder  for  me?" 

"To  make  it  easier  for  myself,"  he  retorted. 


IV 


^  I  ^HE  next  afternoon  Glennard,  leaving  his  office  earlier 
than  usual,  turned,  on  his  way  home,  into  one  of  the 
public  libraries. 

He  had  the  place  to  himself  at  that  closing  hour,  and  the 
librarian  was  able  to  give  an  undivided  attention  to  his 
tentative  request  for  letters — collections  of  letters.  The 
librarian  suggested  Walpole. 

"I  meant  women — women's  letters." 

The  librarian  proffered  Hannah  More  and  Miss  Mar- 
tineau. 

Glennard  cursed  his  own  inarticulateness.  "I  mean  let 
ters  to — to  some  one  person — a  man;  their  husband — or — " 

"Ah,"  said  the  inspired  librarian,  "Eloise  and  Abailard." 
[281] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"Well — something  a  little  nearer,  perhaps,"  said  Glen- 
nard,  with  lightness.  "Did  n't  Merimee — " 

"The  lady's  letters,  in  that  case,  were  not  published." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Glennard,  vexed  at  his  blunder. 

"There  are  George  Sand's  letters  to  Flaubert." 

"Ah!"  Glennard  hesitated.  "Was  she— were  they—?" 
He  chafed  at  his  own  ignorance  of  the  sentimental  by-paths 
of  literature. 

"If  you  want  love-letters,  perhaps  some  of  the  French 
eighteenth-century  correspondences  might  suit  you  bet 
ter — Mile.  Ai'sse  or  Madame  de  Sabran — " 

But  Glennard  insisted.  "I  want  something  modern — 
English  or  American.  I  want  to  look  something  up,"  he 
lamely  concluded. 

The  librarian  could  only  suggest  George  Eliot. 

"Well,  give  me  some  of  the  French  things,  then — and 
I  '11  have  Merimee's  letters.  It  was  the  woman  who  pub 
lished  them,  was  n't  it?" 

He  caught  up  his  armful,  transferring  it,  on  the  door 
step,  to  a  cab  which  carried  him  to  his  rooms.  He  dined 
alone,  hurriedly,  at  a  small  restaurant  near  by,  and  re 
turned  at  once  to  his  books. 

Late  that  night,  as  he  undressed,  he  wondered  what 
contemptible  impulse  had  forced  from  him  his  last  words 
to  Alexa  Trent.  It  was  bad  enough  to  interfere  with  the 
girl's  chances  by  hanging  about  her  to  the  obvious  exclu 
sion  of  other  men,  but  it  was  worse  to  seem  to  justify  his 
[  282  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

weakness  by  dressing  up  the  future  in  delusive  ambiguities. 
He  saw  himself  sinking  from  depth  to  depth  of  sentimental 
cowardice  in  his  reluctance  to  renounce  his  hold  on  her; 
and  it  filled  him  with  self-disgust  to  think  that  the  high 
est  feeling  of  which  he  supposed  himself  capable  was  blent 
with  such  base  elements. 

His  awakening  was  hardly  cheered  by  the  sight  of  her 
writing.  He  tore  her  note  open  and  took  in  the  few  lines 
— she  seldom  exceeded  the  first  page — with  the  lucidity  of 
apprehension  that  is  the  forerunner  of  evil. 

"My  aunt  sails  on  Saturday  and  I  must  give  her  my 
answer  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Please  don't  come  till 
then — I  want  to  think  the  question  over  by  myself.  I 
know  I  ought  to  go.  Won't  you  help  me  to  be  reasonable  ?  " 

It  was  settled,  then.  Well,  he  would  help  her  to  be  rea 
sonable;  he  would  n't  stand  in  her  way;  he  would  let  her 
go.  For  twc  years  he  had  been  living  some  other,  luckier 
man's  life;  the  time  had  come  when  he  must  drop  back 
into  his  own.  He  no  longer  tried  to  look  ahead,  to  grope 
his  way  through  the  endless  labyrinth  of  his  material  diffi 
culties;  a  sense  of  dull  resignation  closed  in  on  him  like  a 
fog. 

"Hullo,  Glennard !"  a  voice  said,  as  an  electric  car,  late 
that  afternoon,  dropped  him  at  an  uptown  corner. 

He  looked  up  and  met  the  interrogative  smile  of  Barton 
Flamel,  who  stood  on  the  curbstone  watching  the  retreat- 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

ing  car  with  the  eye  of  a  man  philosophic  enough  to  re 
member  that  it  will  be  followed  by  another. 

Glennard  felt  his  usual  impulse  of  pleasure  at  meeting 
Flamel;  but  it  was  not  in  this  case  curtailed  by  the  reaction 
of  contempt  that  habitually  succeeded  it.  Probably  even 
the  few  men  who  had  known  Flamel  since  his  youth  could 
have  given  no  good  reason  for  the  vague  mistrust  that  he 
inspired.  Some  people  are  judged  by  their  actions,  others 
by  their  ideas;  and  perhaps  the  shortest  way  of  defining 
Flamel  is  to  say  that  his  well-known  leniency  of  view  was 
vaguely  divined  to  include  himself.  Simple  minds  may  have 
resented  the  discovery  that  his  opinions  were  based  on  his 
perceptions;  but  there  was  certainly  no  more  definite 
charge  against  him  than  that  implied  in  the  doubt  as  to 
how  he  would  behave  in  an  emergency,  and  his  company 
was  looked  upon  as  one  of  those  mildly  unwholesome  dis 
sipations  to  which  the  prudent  may  occasionally  yield.  It 
now  offered  itself  to  Glennard  as  an  easy  escape  from  the 
obsession  of  moral  problems,  which  somehow  could  no 
more  be  worn  in  Flamel's  presence  than  a  surplice  in  the 
street. 

"Where  are  you  going?  To  the  club?"  Flamel  asked; 
adding,  as  the  younger  man  assented,  "Why  not  come  to 
my  studio  instead  ?  You  '11  see  one  bore  instead  of  twenty." 

The  apartment  which  Flamel  described  as  his  studio 
showed,  as  its  one  claim  to  the  designation,  a  perennially 
empty  easel,  the  rest  of  its  space  being  filled  with  the  evi- 
[  284  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

dences  of  a  comprehensive  dilettanteism.  Against  this 
background,  which  seemed  the  visible  expression  of  its 
owner's  intellectual  tolerance,  rows  of  fine  books  detached 
themselves  with  a  prominence  showing  them  to  be  Flamel's 
chief  care. 

Glennard  glanced  with  the  eye  of  untrained  curiosity  at 
the  lines  of  warm-toned  morocco,  while  his  host  busied 
himself  with  the  uncorking  of  Apollinaris. 

"You  've  got  a  splendid  lot  of  books,"  he  said. 

"They  're  fairly  decent,"  the  other  assented,  in  the  curt 
tone  of  the  collector  who  will  not  talk  of  his  passion  for 
fear  of  talking  of  nothing  else;  then,  as  Glennard,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  began  to  stroll  perfunctorily  down  the  long 
line  of  bookcases — "Some  men,"  Flamel  irresistibly  added, 
"think  of  books  merely  as  tools,  others  as  tooling.  I  'm 
between  the  two;  there  are  days  when  I  use  them  as 
scenery,  other  days  when  I  want  them  as  society;  so  that, 
as  you  see,  my  library  represents  a  makeshift  compromise 
between  looks  and  brains,  and  the  collectors  look  down  on 
me  almost  as  much  as  the  students." 

Glennard,  without  answering,  was  mechanically  taking 
one  book  after  another  from  the  shelves.  His  hands  slipped 
curiously  over  the  smooth  covers  and  the  noiseless  sub 
sidence  of  opening  pages.  Suddenly  he  came  on  a  thin 
volume  of  faded  manuscript. 

"What 's  this  ?"  he  asked  with  a  listless  sense  of  wonder. 

"Ah,  you  're  at  my  manuscript  shelf.  I  've  been  going 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

in  for  that  sort  of  thing  lately."  Flamel  came  up  and 
looked  over  his  shoulders.  "That 's  a  bit  of  Stendhal — one 
of  the  Italian  stories — and  here  are  some  letters  of  Balzac 
to  Madame  Surville." 

Glennard  took  the  book  with  sudden  eagerness.  "Who 
was  Madame  Surville?" 

"His  sister."  He  was  conscious  that  Flamel  was  looking 
at  him  with  the  smile  that  was  like  an  interrogation  point. 
"I  did  n't  know  you  cared  for  this  kind  of  thing." 

"I  don't — at  least  I  've  never  had  the  chance.  Have  you 
many  collections  of  letters?" 

"Lord,  no — very  few.  I  'm  just  beginning,  and  most  of 
the  interesting  ones  are  out  of  my  reach.  Here's  a  queer 
little  collection,  though — the  rarest  thing  I  've  got — half  a 
dozen  of  Shelley's  letters  to  Harriet  Westbrook.  I  had  a 
devil  of  a  time  getting  them — a  lot  of  collectors  were  after 
them." 

Glennard,  taking  the  volume  from  his  hand,  glanced 
with  a  kind  of  repugnance  at  the  interleaving  of  yellow 
crisscrossed  sheets.  "She  was  the  one  who  drowned  herself, 
was  n't  she?" 

Flamel  nodded.  "I  suppose  that  little  episode  adds  about 
fifty  per  cent,  to  their  value,"  he  said  meditatively. 

Glennard  laid  the  book  down.  He  wondered  why  he  had 
joined  Flamel.  He  was  in  no  humor  to  be  amused  by  the 
older  man's  talk,  and  a  recrudescence  of  personal  misery 
rose  about  him  like  an  icy  tide. 
[  286] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"I  believe  I  must  take  myself  off,"  he  said.  "I  *d  for 
gotten  an  engagement." 

He  turned  to  go;  but  almost  at  the  same  moment  he 
was  conscious  of  a  duality  of  intention  wherein  his  appar 
ent  wish  to  leave  revealed  itself  as  a  last  effort  of  the  will 
against  the  overmastering  desire  to  stay  and  unbosom  him 
self  to  Flamel. 

The  older  man,  as  though  divining  the  conflict,  laid  a 
detaining  pressure  on  his  arm. 

"Won't  the  engagement  keep?  Sit  down  and  try  one  of 
these  cigars.  I  don't  often  have  the  luck  of  seeing  you  here." 

"I  'm  rather  driven  just  now,"  said  Glennard  vaguely. 
He  found  himself  seated  again,  and  Flamel  had  pushed  to 
his  side  a  low  stand  holding  a  bottle  of  Apollinaris  and  a 
decanter  of  cognac. 

Flamel,  thrown  back  in  his  capacious  arm-chair,  sur 
veyed  him  through  a  cloud  of  smoke  with  the  comfortable 
tolerance  of  the  man  to  whom  no  inconsistencies  need  be 
explained.  Connivance  was  implicit  in  the  air.  It  was  the 
kind  of  atmosphere  in  which  the  outrageous  loses  its  edge. 
Glennard  felt  a  gradual  relaxing  of  his  nerves. 

"I  suppose  one  has  to  pay  a  lot  for  letters  like  that?" 
he  heard  himself  asking,  with  a  glance  in  the  direction  of 
the  volume  he  had  laid  aside. 

"Oh,  so-so — depends  on  circumstances."  Flamel  viewed 
him  thoughtfully.  "Are  you  thinking  of  collecting  ?" 

Glennard  laughed.  "Lord,  no.  The  other  way  round." 
[287] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"Selling?" 

"Oh,  I  hardly  know.  I  was  thinking  of  a  poor  chap — " 

Flamel  filled  the  pause  with  a  nod  of  interest. 

"A  poor  chap  I  used  to  know — who  died — he  died  last 
year — and  who  left  me  a  lot  of  letters,  letters  he  thought 
a  great  deal  of — he  was  fond  of  me  and  left  'em  to  me  out 
right,  with  the  idea,  I  suppose,  that  they  might  benefit  me 
somehow — I  don't  know — I  'm  not  much  up  on  such 
things — "  He  reached  his  hand  to  the  tall  glass  his  host 
had  filled. 

"A  collection  of  autograph  letters,  eh  ?  Any  big  names  ?  " 

"Oh,  only  one  name.  They  're  all  letters  written  to  him 
— by  one  person,  you  understand;  a  woman,  in  fact — " 

"Oh,  a  woman,"  said  Flamel  negligently. 

Glennard  was  nettled  by  his  obvious  loss  of  interest.  "I 
rather  think  they  'd  attract  a  good  deal  of  notice  if  they 
were  published." 

Flamel  still  looked  uninterested.  "Love-letters,  I  sup 
pose?" 

"Oh,  just — the  letters  a  woman  would  write  to  a  man 
she  knew  well.  They  were  tremendous  friends,  he  and  she." 

"And  she  wrote  a  clever  letter?" 

"Clever?  It  was  Margaret  Aubyn." 

A  great  silence  filled  the  room.  It  seemed  to  Glennard 
that  the  words  had  burst  from  him  as  blood  gushes  from  a 
wound. 

"Great  Scott!"  said  Flamel  sitting  up.  "A  collection 
[  288  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

of    Margaret    Aubyn's  letters?   Did    you  say  you   had 
them?" 

"They  were  left  me — by  my  friend." 

"I  see.  Was  he — well,  no  matter.  You  're  to  be  congrat 
ulated,  at  any  rate.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  ?  " 

Glennard  stood  up  with  a  sense  of  weariness  in  all  his 
bones.  "Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  have  n't  thought  much  about 
it.  I  just  happened  to  see  that  some  fellow  was  writing  her 
life—" 

"Joslin;  yes.  You  did  n't  think  of  giving  them  to  him?'* 

Glennard  lounged  across  the  room  and  stood  staring  up 
at  a  bronze  Bacchus  who  drooped  his  garlanded  head  above 
the  pediment  of  an  Italian  cabinet.  "What  ought  I  to  do? 
You  're  just  the  fellow  to  advise  me."  He  felt  the  blood  in 
his  cheek  as  he  spoke. 

Flamel  sat  with  meditative  eye.  "What  do  you  want  to 
do  with  them?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  to  publish  them,"  said  Glennard,  swinging 
round  with  sudden  energy — "If  I  can — 

"If  you  can?  They  're  yours,  you  say?" 

"They  're  mine  fast  enough.  There  's  no  one  to  prevent 
— I  mean  there  are  no  restrictions — "  he  was  arrested  by 
the  sense  that  these  accumulated  proofs  of  impunity  might 
precisely  stand  as  the  strongest  check  on  his  action. 

"And  Mrs.  Aubyn  had  no  family,  I  believe?" 

"No." 

"Then  I  don't  see  who  's  to  interfere,"  said  Flamel, 
studying  his  cigar-tip. 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Glennard  had  turned  his  unseeing  stare  on  an  ecstatic 
Saint  Catherine  framed  in  tarnished  gilding. 

"It 's  just  this  way,"  he  began  again,  with  an  effort. 
"When  letters  are  as  personal  as — as  these  of  my  friend's. 
.  .  .  Well,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  the  cash  would 
make  a  heap  of  difference  to  me;  such  a  lot  that  it  rather 
obscures  my  judgment — the  fact  is,  if  I  could  lay  my  hand 
on  a  few  thousands  now  I  could  get  into  a  big  thing,  and 
without  appreciable  risk;  and  I  'd  like  to  know  whether 
you  think  I  'd  be  justified — under  the  circumstances.  .  .  ." 
He  paused  with  a  dry  throat.  It  seemed  to  him  at  the 
moment  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  ever  to  sink 
lower  in  his  own  estimation.  He  was  in  truth  less  ashamed 
of  weighing  the  temptation  than  of  submitting  his  scruples 
to  a  man  like  Flamel,  and  affecting  to  appeal  to  sentiments 
of  delicacy  on  the  absence  of  which  he  had  consciously 
reckoned.  But  he  had  reached  a  point  where  each  word 
seemed  to  compel  another,  as  each  wave  in  a  stream  is 
forced  forward  by  the  pressure  behind  it;  and  before  Flamel 
could  speak  he  had  faltered  out — "You  don't  think  people 
could  say  .  .  .  could  criticise  the  man.  .  .  ." 

"But  the  man  's  dead,  is  n't  he?" 

"He  's  dead — yes;  but  can  I  assume  the  responsibility 
without — " 

Flamel  hesitated;  and  almost  immediately  Glennard's 
scruples  gave  way  to  irritation.  If  at  this  hour  Flamel  were 
to  affect  an  inopportune  reluctance — ! 
[290] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

The  older  man's  answer  reassured  him.  "Why  need  you 
assume  any  responsibility?  Your  name  won't  appear,  of 
course;  and  as  to  your  friend's,  I  don't  see  why  his  should 
either.  He  was  n't  a  celebrity  himself,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  no." 

"Then  the  letters  can  be  addressed  to  Mr.  Blank. 
Does  n't  that  make  it  all  right  ?  " 

Glennard's  hesitation  revived.  "For  the  public,  yes. 
But  I  don't  see  that  it  alters  the  case  for  me.  The  question 
is,  ought  I  to  publish  them  at  all  ?  " 

"Of  course  you  ought  to."  Flamel  spoke  with  invigor 
ating  emphasis.  "I  doubt  if  you  'd  be  justified  in  keeping 
them  back.  Anything  of  Margaret  Aubyn's  is  more  or  less 
public  property  by  this  time.  She  's  too  great  for  any  one 
of  us.  I  was  only  wondering  how  you  could  use  them  to  the 
best  advantage — to  yourself,  I  mean.  How  many  are 
there?" 

"Oh,  a  lot;  perhaps  a  hundred — I  haven't  counted. 
There  may  be  more.  ..." 

"  Gad !  What  a  haul !  When  were  they  written  ?  " 

"I  don't  know — that  is — they  corresponded  for  years. 
What 's  the  odds  ?  "  He  moved  toward  his  hat  with  a  vague 
impulse  of  flight. 

"It  all  counts,"  said  Flamel  imperturbably.  "A  long 

correspondence— one,  I  mean,  that  covers  a  great  deal  of 

time — is  obviously  worth  more  than  if  the  same  number  of 

letters  had  been  written  within  a  year.  At  any  rate,  you 

[291] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

won't  give  them  to  Joslin  ?  They  'd  fill  a  book,  would  n't 
they?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I  don't  know  how  much  it  takes  to  fill  a 
book." 

"Not  love-letters,  you  say?" 

"Why?"  flashed  from  Glennard. 

"Oh,  nothing — only  the  big  public  is  sentimental,  and 
if  they  were — why,  you  could  get  any  money  for  Margaret 
Aubyn's  love-letters." 

Glennard  was  silent. 

"Are  the  letters  interesting  in  themselves  ?  I  mean  apart 
from  the  association  with  her  name?" 

"I  'm  no  judge."  Glennard  took  up  his  hat  and  thrust 
himself  into  his  overcoat.  "I  dare  say  I  sha'n't  do  anything 
about  it.  And,  Flamel — you  won't  mention  this  to  any 
one?" 

"Lord,  no.  Well,  I  congratulate  you.  You  've  got  a  big 
thing."  Flamel  was  smiling  at  him  from  the  hearth. 

Glennard,  on  the  threshold,  forced  a  response  to  the 
smile,  while  he  questioned  with  loitering  indifference — 
"Financially,  eh?" 

"Rather;  I  should  say  so." 

Glennard's  hand  lingered  on  the  knob.  "How  much — 
should  you  say  ?  You  know  about  such  things." 

"Oh,  I  should  have  to  see  the  letters;  but  I  should  say 
— well,  if  you  've  got  enough  to  fill  a  book  and  they  're 
fairly  readable,  and  the  book  is  brought  out  at  the  right 
[292] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

time — say  ten  thousand  down  from  the  publisher,  and  pos 
sibly  one  or  two  more  in  royalties.  If  you  got  the  publishers 
bidding  against  each  other  you  might  do  even  better;  but 
of  course  I  'm  talking  in  the  dark." 

"Of  course,"  said  Glennard,  with  sudden  dizziness.  His 
hand  had  slipped  from  the  knob  and  he  stood  staring  down 
at  the  exotic  spirals  of  the  Persian  rug  beneath  his  feet. 

"I  'd  have  to  see  the  letters,"  Flamel  repeated. 

"Of  course — you  'd  have  to  see  them.  .  .  ."  Glennard 
stammered;  and,  without  turning,  he  flung  over  his 
shoulder  an  inarticulate  "  Good-bye.  .  .  ." 


'  I  AHE  little  house,  as  Glennard  strolled  up  to  it  between 
the  trees,  seemed  no  more  than  a  gay  tent  pitched 
against  the  sunshine.  It  had  the  crispness  of  a  freshly 
starched  summer  gown,  and  the  geraniums  on  the  veranda 
bloomed  as  simultaneously  as  the  flowers  in  a  bonnet. 
The  garden  was  prospering  absurdly.  Seed  they  had  sown 
at  random — amid  laughing  counter-charges  of  incompe 
tence — had  shot  up  in  fragrant  defiance  of  their  blunders. 
He  smiled  to  see  the  clematis  unfolding  its  punctual  wings 
about  the  porch.  The  tiny  lawn  was  smooth  as  a  shaven 
cheek,  and  a  crimson  rambler  mounted  to  the  nursery 
window  of  a  baby  who  never  cried.  A  breeze  shook  the 
awning  above  the  tea-table,  and  his  wife,  as  he  drew  near, 
[  293  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

could  be  seen  bending  above  a  kettle  that  was  just  about 
to  boil.  So  vividly  did  the  whole  scene  suggest  the  painted 
bliss  of  a  stage  setting,  that  it  would  have  been  hardly  sur 
prising  to  see  her  step  forward  among  the  flowers  and  trill 
out  her  virtuous  happiness  from  the  veranda  rail. 

The  stale  heat  of  the  long  day  in  town,  the  dusty  pro 
miscuity  of  the  suburban  train,  were  now  but  the  requisite 
foil  to  an  evening  of  scented  breezes  and  tranquil  talk. 
They  had  been  married  more  than  a  year,  and  each  home 
coming  still  reflected  the  freshness  of  their  first  day  to 
gether.  If,  indeed,  their  happiness  had  a  flaw,  it  was  in 
resembling  too  closely  the  bright  impermanence  of  their 
surroundings.  Their  love  as  yet  was  but  the  gay  tent  of 
holiday-makers. 

His  wife  looked  up  with  a  smile.  The  country  life  suited 
her,  and  her  beauty  had  gained  depth  from  a  stillness  in 
which  certain  faces  might  have  grown  opaque. 

"Are  you  very  tired?"  she  asked,  pouring  his  tea. 

"Just  enough  to  enjoy  this."  He  rose  from  the  chair  in 
which  he  had  thrown  himself  and  bent  over  the  tray  for 
his  cream.  "You've  had  a  visitor?"  he  commented,  no 
ticing  a  half-empty  cup  beside  her  own. 

"Only  Mr.  Flamel,"  she  said  indifferently. 

"Flamel?  Again?" 

She  answered  without  show  of  surprise.  "He  left  just 
now.  His  yacht  is  down  at  Laurel  Bay  and  he  borrowed  a 
trap  of  the  Dreshams  to  drive  over  here." 
[294] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Glennard  made  no  comment,  and  she  went  on,  leaning 
her  head  back  against  the  cushions  of  her  bamboo  seat, 
"He  wants  us  to  go  for  a  sail  with  him  next  Sunday." 

Glennard  meditatively  stirred  his  tea.  He  was  trying  to 
think  of  the  most  natural  and  unartificial  thing  to  say, 
and  his  voice  seemed  to  come  from  the  outside,  as  though 
he  were  speaking  behind  a  marionette.  "Do  you  want  to  ?" 

"Just  as  you  please,"  she  said  compliantly.  No  affecta 
tion  of  indifference  could  have  been  as  baffling  as  her  com 
pliance.  Glennard,  of  late,  was  beginning  to  feel  that  the 
surface  which,  a  year  ago,  he  had  taken  for  a  sheet  of  clear 
glass,  might,  after  all,  be  a  mirror  reflecting  merely  his  own 
conception  of  what  lay  behind  it. 

"Do  you  like  Flamel?"  he  suddenly  asked;  to  which, 
still  engaged  with  her  tea,  she  returned  the  feminine  answer 
—"I  thought  you  did." 

"I  do,  of  course,"  he  agreed,  vexed  at  his  own  incorrigi 
ble  tendency  to  magnify  Flamel's  importance  by  hovering 
about  the  topic.  "A  sail  would  be  rather  jolly;  let 's  go." 

She  made  no  reply  and  he  drew  forth  the  rolled-up  eve 
ning  papers  which  he  had  thrust  into  his  pocket  on  leaving 
the  train.  As  he  smoothed  them  out  his  own  countenance 
seemed  to  undergo  the  same  process.  He  ran  his  eye  down 
the  list  of  stocks,  and  Flamel's  importunate  personality  re 
ceded  behind  the  rows  of  figures  pushing  forward  into 
notice  like  so  many  bearers  of  good  news.  Glennard's  in 
vestments  were  flowering  like  his  garden:  the  dryest  shares 
[295] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

blossomed  into  dividends  and  a  golden  harvest  awaited 
his  sickle. 

He  glanced  at  his  wife  with  the  tranquil  air  of  a  man 
who  digests  good  luck  as  naturally  as  the  dry  ground 
absorbs  a  shower.  "Things  are  looking  uncommonly  well. 
I  believe  we  shall  be  able  to  go  to  town  for  two  or  three 
months  next  winter  if  we  can  find  something  cheap." 

She  smiled  luxuriously :  it  was  pleasant  to  be  able  to  say, 
with  an  air  of  balancing  relative  advantages,  "Really,  on 
the  baby's  account  I  shall  be  almost  sorry;  but  if  we  do  go, 
there  's  Kate  Erskine's  house  ...  she  '11  let  us  have  it  for 
almost  nothing.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  write  her  about  it,"  he  recommended,  his  eye 
travelling  on  in  search  of  the  weather  report.  He  had 
turned  to  the  wrong  page;  and  suddenly  a  line  of  black 
characters  leapt  out  at  him  as  from  an  ambush. 

"MARGARET  AUBTN'S  LETTERS. 

"Two  volumes.  Out  To-day.  First  Edition  of  five  thousand 
"sold  out  before  leaving  the  press.  Second  Edition  ready  next 
"week.  The  Book  of  the  Year.  .  .  ." 

He  looked  up  stupidly.  His  wife  still  sat  with  her  head 
thrown  back,  her  pure  profile  detached  against  the  cush 
ions.  She  was  smiling  a  little  over  the  prospect  his  last 
words  had  opened.  Behind  her  head  shivers  of  sun  and 
shade  ran  across  the  striped  awning.  A  row  of  maples  and 
a  privet  hedge  hid  their  neighbor's  gables,  giving  them 
[  296  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

undivided  possession  of  their  leafy  half-acre;  and  life,  a 
moment  before,  had  been  like  their  plot  of  ground,  shut  off, 
hedged  in  from  importunities,  impenetrably  his  and  hers. 
Now  it  seemed  to  him  that  every  maple-leaf,  every  privet- 
bud,  was  a  relentless  human  gaze,  pressing  close  upon  their 
privacy.  It  was  as  though  they  sat  in  a  brightly  lit  room, 
uncurtained  from  a  darkness  full  of  hostile  watchers.  ... 
His  wife  still  smiled;  and  her  unconsciousness  of  danger 
seemed  in  some  horrible  way  to  put  her  beyond  the  reach 
of  rescue.  .  .  . 

He  had  not  known  that  it  would  be  like  this.  After  the 
first  odious  weeks,  spent  in  preparing  the  letters  for  pub 
lication,  in  submitting  them  to  Flamel,  and  in  negotiating 
with  the  publishers,  the  transaction  had  dropped  out  of  his 
consciousness  into  that  unvisited  limbo  to  which  we  rele 
gate  the  deeds  we  would  rather  not  have  done  but  have  no 
notion  of  undoing.  From  the  moment  he  had  obtained  Miss 
Trent's  promise  not  to  sail  with  her  aunt  he  had  tried  to 
imagine  himself  irrevocably  committed.  After  that,  he 
argued,  his  first  duty  was  to  her — she  had  become  his  con 
science.  The  sum  obtained  from  the  publishers  by  FlamePs 
manipulations,  and  opportunely  transferred  to  Dinslow's 
successful  venture,  already  yielded  a  return  which,  com 
bined  with  Glennard's  professional  earnings,  took  the 
edge  of  compulsion  from  their  way  of  living,  making  it 
appear  the  expression  of  a  graceful  preference  for  sim 
plicity.  It  was  the  mitigated  poverty  which  can  subscribe 
f  2971 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

to  a  review  or  two  and  have  a  few  flowers  on  the  dinner- 
table.  And  already  in  a  small  way  Glennard  was  beginning 
to  feel  the  magnetic  quality  of  prosperity.  Clients  who  had 
passed  his  door  in  the  hungry  days  sought  it  out  now  that 
it  bore  the  name  of  a  successful  man.  It  was  understood 
that  a  small  inheritance,  cleverly  invested,  was  the  source 
of  his  fortune;  and  there  was  a  feeling  that  a  man  who 
could  do  so  well  for  himself  was  likely  to  know  how  to  turn 
over  other  people's  money. 

But  it  was  in  the  more  intimate  reward  of  his  wife's 
happiness  that  Glennard  tasted  the  full  flavor  of  success. 
Coming  out  of  conditions  so  narrow  that  those  he  offered 
her  seemed  spacious,  she  fitted  into  her  new  life  without 
any  of  those  manifest  efforts  at  adjustment  that  are  as 
sore  to  a  husband's  pride  as  the  critical  rearrangement  of 
the  bridal  furniture.  She  had  given  him,  instead,  the  deli 
cate  pleasure  of  watching  her  expand  like  a  sea-creature 
restored  to  its  element,  stretching  out  the  atrophied  ten 
tacles  of  girlish  vanity  and  enjoyment  to  the  rising  tide  of 
opportunity.  And  somehow — in  the  windowless  inner  cell 
of  his  consciousness  where  self-criticism  cowered — Glen- 
nard's  course  seemed  justified  by  its  merely  material  suc 
cess.  How  could  such  a  crop  of  innocent  blessedness  have 
sprung  from  tainted  soil  ?  .  .  . 

Now  he  had  the  injured  sense  of  a  man  entrapped  into 
a  disadvantageous  bargain.  He  had  not  known  it  would  be 
like  this;  and  a  dull  anger  gathered  at  his  heart.  Anger 
[  298  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

against  whom  ?  Against  his  wife,  for  not  knowing  what  he 
suffered  ?  Against  Flamel,  for  being  the  unconscious  instru 
ment  of  his  wrong-doing  ?  Or  against  that  mute  memory  to 
which  his  own  act  had  suddenly  given  a  voice  of  accusa 
tion?  Yes,  that  was  it;  and  his  punishment  henceforth 
would  be  the  presence,  the  unescapable  presence,  of  the 
woman  he  had  so  persistently  evaded.  She  would  always 
be  there  now.  It  was  as  though  he  had  married  her  instead 
of  the  other.  It  was  what  she  had  always  wanted — to  be 
with  him — and  she  had  gained  her  point  at  last.  .  .  .  ^| 

He  sprang  up,  as  though  in  an  impulse  of  flight.  .  ,  , 
The  sudden  movement  lifted  his  wife's  lids,  and  she 
asked,  in  the  incurious  voice  of  the  woman  whose  life  is 
enclosed  in  a  magic  circle  of  prosperity — "Any  news?" 

"No — none — "  he  said,  roused  to  a  sense  of  immediate 
peril.  The  papers  lay  scattered  at  his  feet — what  if  she 
were  to  see  them  ?  He  stretched  his  arm  to  gather  them  up, 
but  his  next  thought  showed  him  the  futility  of  such  con 
cealment.  The  same  advertisement  would  appear  every 
day,  for  weeks  to  come,  in  every  newspaper;  how  could  he 
prevent  her  seeing  it  ?  He  could  not  always  be  hiding  the 
papers  from  her.  .  .  .  Well,  and  what  if  she  did  see  it  ?  It 
would  signify  nothing  to  her;  the  chances  were  that  she 
would  never  even  read  the  book.  ...  As  she  ceased  to  be 
an  element  of  fear  in  his  calculations  the  distance  between 
them  seemed  to  lessen  and  he  took  her  again,  as  it  were, 
into  the  circle  of  his  conjugal  protection.  .  .  .  Yet  a  mo- 
f  2991 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

ment  before  he  had  almost  hated  her!  ...  He  laughed 
aloud  at  his  senseless  terrors.  .  .  .  He  was  off  his  balance, 
decidedly.  .  .  . 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  she  asked. 

He  explained,  elaborately,  that  he  was  laughing  at  the 
recollection  of  an  old  woman  in  the  train,  an  old  woman 
with  a  lot  of  bundles,  who  could  n't  find  her  ticket.  .  .  . 
But  somehow,  in  the  telling,  the  humor  of  the  story  seemed 
to  evaporate,  and  he  felt  the  conventionality  of  her  smile. 
He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "Is  n't  it  time  to  dress?" 

She  rose  with  serene  reluctance.  "It 's  a  pity  to  go  in. 
The  garden  looks  so  lovely." 

They  lingered  side  by  side,  surveying  their  domain. 
There  was  not  space  in  it,  at  this  hour,  for  the  shadow  of 
the  elm  tree  in  the  angle  of  the  hedge:  it  crossed  the  lawn, 
cut  the  flower-border  in  two,  and  ran  up  the  side  of  the 
house  to  the  nursery  window.  She  bent  to  flick  a  cater 
pillar  from  the  honeysuckle;  then,  as  they  turned  indoors, 
"If  we  mean  to  go  on  the  yacht  next  Sunday,"  she  sug 
gested,  "ought  n't  you  to  let  Mr.  Flamel  know?" 

Glennard's  exasperation  deflected  suddenly.  "Of  course 
I  shall  let  him  know.  You  always  seem  to  imply  that  I  'm 
going  to  do  something  rude  to  Flamel." 

The  words  reverberated  through  her  silence;  she  had -a 

way  of  thus  leaving  one  space  in  which  to  contemplate 

one's  folly  at  arm's  length.  Glennard  turned  on  his  heel 

and  went  upstairs.  As  he  dropped  into  a  chair  before  his 

[  300] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

dressing-table,  he  said  to  himself  that  in  the  last  hour  he 
had  sounded  the  depths  of  his  humiliation,  and  that  the 
lowest  dregs  of  it,  the  very  bottom-slime,  was  the  hateful 
necessity  of  having  always,  as  long  as  the  two  men  lived, 
to  be  civil  to  Barton  Flamel. 


VI 


'  I  ^HE  week  in  town  had  been  sultry,  and  the  men,  in 
the  Sunday  emancipation  of  white  flannel  and  duck, 
filled  the  deck  chairs  of  the  yacht  with  their  outstretched 
apathy,  following,  through  a  mist  of  cigarette  smoke,  the 
flitting  inconsequences  of  the  women.  The  party  was  a 
small  one — Flamel  had  few  intimate  friends — but  com 
posed  of  more  heterogeneous  atoms  than  the  little  pools 
into  which  society  usually  runs.  The  reaction  from  the 
chief  episode  of  his  earlier  life  had  bred  in  Glennard  an 
uneasy  distaste  for  any  kind  of  personal  saliency.  Clever 
ness  was  useful  in  business;  but  in  society  it  seemed  to  him 
as  futile  as  the  sham  cascades  formed  by  a  stream  that 
might  have  been  used  to  drive  a  mill.  He  liked  the  collective 
point  of  view  that  goes  with  the  civilized  uniformity  of 
dress  clothes,  and  his  wife's  attitude  implied  the  same  pref 
erence;  yet  they  found  themselves  slipping  more  and  more 
into  FlameFs  intimacy.  Alexa  had  once  or  twice  said  that 
she  enjoyed  meeting  clever  people;  but  her  enjoyment  took 
the  negative  form  of  a  smiling  receptivity;  and  Glennard 
[301  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

felt  a  growing  preference  for  the  kind  of  people  who  have 
their  thinking  done  for  them  by  the  community. 

Still,  the  deck  of  the  yacht  was  a  pleasant  refuge  from 
the  heat  on  shore,  and  his  wife's  profile,  serenely  projected 
against  the  changing  blue,  lay  on  his  retina  like  a  cool 
hand  on  the  nerves.  He  had  never  been  more  impressed 
by  the  kind  of  absoluteness  that  lifted  her  beauty  above 
the  transient  effects  of  other  women,  making  the  most 
harmonious  face  seem  an  accidental  collocation  of  features. 

The  ladies  who  directly  suggested  this  comparison  were 
of  a  kind  accustomed  to  take  similar  risks  with  more  grat 
ifying  results.  Mrs.  Armiger  had  in  fact  long  been  the  tri 
umphant  alternative  of  those  who  couldn't  "see"  Alexa 
Glennard's  looks;  and  Mrs.  Touchett's  claims  to  consider 
ation  were  founded  on  that  distribution  of  effects  which  is 
the  wonder  of  those  who  admire  a  highly  cultivated  coun 
try.  The  third  lady  of  the  trio  which  Glennard's  fancy  had 
put  te  such  unflattering  uses  was  bound  by  circumstances 
to  support  the  claims  of  the  other  two.  This  was  Mrs. 
Dresham,  the  wife  of  the  editor  of  the  Radiator.  Mrs. 
Dresham  was  a  lady  who  had  rescued  herself  from  social 
obscurity  by  assuming  the  r61e  of  her  husband's  exponent 
and  interpreter;  and  Dresham's  leisure  being  devoted  to 
the  cultivation  of  remarkable  women,  his  wife's  attitude 
committed  her  to  the  public  celebration  of  their  remark- 
ableness.  For  the  conceivable  tedium  of  this  duty,  Mrs. 
Dresham  was  repaid  by  the  fact  that  there  were  people 
[302] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

who  took  her  for  a  remarkable  woman;  and  who  in  turn 
probably  purchased  similar  distinction  with  the  small 
change  of  her  reflected  importance.  As  to  the  other  ladies 
of  the  party,  they  were  simply  the  wives  of  some  of  the 
men — the  kind  of  women  who  expect  to  be  talked  to  col 
lectively  and  to  have  their  questions  left  unanswered. 

Mrs.  Armiger,  the  latest  embodiment  of  Dresham's  in 
stinct  for  the  remarkable,  was  an  innocent  beauty  who  for 
years  had  distilled  dulness  among  a  set  of  people  now  self- 
condemned  by  their  inability  to  appreciate  her.  Under 
Dresham's  tutelage  she  had  developed  into  a  "thoughtful 
woman,"  who  read  his  leaders  in  the  Radiator  and  bought 
the  works  he  recommended.  When  a  new  book  appeared, 
people  wanted  to  know  what  Mrs.  Armiger  thought  of  it; 
and  a  young  gentleman  who  had  made  a  trip  in  Touraine 
had  recently  inscribed  to  her  the  wide-margined  result  of 
his  explorations. 

Glennard,  leaning  back  with  his  head  against  the  rail 
and  a  slit  of  fugitive  blue  between  his  half-closed  lids, 
vaguely  wished  she  would  n't  spoil  the  afternoon  by  making 
people  talk;  though  he  reduced  his  annoyance  to  the  min 
imum  by  not  listening  to  what  was  said,  there  remained  a 
latent  irritation  against  the  general  futility  of  words. 

His  wife's  gift  of  silence  seemed  to  him  the  most  vivid 

commentary  on  the  clumsiness  of  speech  as  a  means  of 

intercourse,  and  his  eyes  had  turned  to  her  in  renewed 

appreciation  of  this  finer  faculty  when  Mrs.  Armiger's 

[303] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

voice  abruptly  brought  home  to  him  the  underrated  poten 
tialities  of  language. 

"You've  read  them,  of  course,  Mrs.  Glennard?"  he 
heard  her  ask:  and,  in  reply  to  Alexa's  vague  interroga 
tion — "Why,  the  Aubyn  Letters — it 's  the  only  book  peo 
ple  are  talking  of  this  week." 

Mrs.  Dresham  immediately  saw  her  advantage.  "You 
have  n't  read  them  ?  How  very  extraordinary !  As  Mrs. 
Armiger  says,  the  book  's  in  the  air :  one  breathes  it  in  like 
the  influenza." 

Glennard  sat  motionless,  watching  his  wife. 

"Perhaps  it  has  n't  reached  the  suburbs  yet,"  she  said 
with  her  unruffled  smile. 

"Oh,  do  let  me  come  to  you,  then!"  Mrs.  Touchett 
cried;  "anything  for  a  change  of  air!  I  'm  positively  sick 
of  the  book  and  I  can't  put  it  down.  Can't  you  sail  us 
beyond  its  reach,  Mr.  Flamel?" 

Flamel  shook  his  head.  "Not  even  with  this  breeze. 
Literature  travels  faster  than  steam  nowadays.  And  the 
worst  of  it  is  that  we  can't  any  of  us  give  up  reading: 
it 's  as  insidious  as  a  vice  and  as  tiresome  as  a  virtue." 

"I  believe  it  is  a  vice,  almost,  to  read  such  a  book  as 
the  Letters"  said  Mrs.  Touchett.  "It 's  the  woman's  soul, 
absolutely  torn  up  by  the  roots — her  whole  self  laid  bare; 
and  to  a  man  who  evidently  did  n't  care;  who  could  n't 
have  cared.  I  don't  mean  to  read  another  line:  it 's  too 
much  like  listening  at  a  keyhole." 
[  304  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"But  if  she  wanted  it  published?" 

"Wanted  it?  How  do  we  know  she  did?" 

"Why,  I  heard  she  'd  left  the  letters  to  the  man— who 
ever  he  is — with  directions  that  they  should  be  published 
after  his  death—" 

"I  don't  believe  it,"   Mrs.  Touchett  declared. 

"He  's  dead  then,  is  he?"  one  of  the  men  asked. 

"Why,  you  don't  suppose  if  he  were  alive  he  could  ever 
hold  up  his  head  again,  with  these  letters  being  read  by 
everybody  ?"  Mrs.  Touchett  protested.  "It  must  have  been 
horrible  enough  to  know  they  'd  been  written  to  him;  but 
to  publish  them!  No  man  could  have  done  it  and  no 
woman  could  have  told  him  to — " 

"Oh,  come,  come,"  Dresham  judicially  interposed; 
"after  all,  they  're  not  love-letters." 

"No — that 's  the  worst  of  it;  they  're  unloved  letters," 
Mrs.  Touchett  retorted. 

"Then,  obviously,  she  need  n't  have  written  them; 
whereas  the  man,  poor  devil,  could  hardly  help  receiving 
them." 

"Perhaps  he  counted  on  the  public  to  save  him  the 
trouble  of  reading  them,"  said  young  Hartly,  who  was  in 
the  cynical  stage. 

Mrs.  Armiger  turned  her  reproachful  loveliness  to 
Dresham.  "From  the  way  you  defend  him  I  believe  you 
know  who  he  is." 

Every  one  looked  at  Dresham,  and  his  wife  smiled  with 
[305] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

the  superior  air  of  the  woman  who  is  in  her  husband's 
professional  secrets.  Dresham  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What  have  I  said  to  defend  him?" 

"You  called  him  a  poor  devil — you  pitied  him." 

"A  man  who  could  let  Margaret  Aubyn  write  to  him  in 
that  way  ?  Of  course  I  pity  him." 

"Then  you  must  know  who  he  is,"  cried  Mrs.  Armiger 
with  a  triumphant  air  of  penetration. 

Hartly  and  Flamel  laughed  and  Dresham  shook  his 
head.  "No  one  knows;  not  even  the  publishers;  so  they 
tell  me  at  least." 

"So  they  tell  you  to  tell  us,"  Hartly  astutely  amended; 
and  Mrs.  Armiger  added,  with  the  appearance  of  carrying 
the  argument  a  point  farther,  "But  even  if  he  's  dead  and 
she  's  dead,  somebody  must  have  given  the  letters  to  the 
publishers." 

"A  little  bird,  probably,"  said  Dresham,  smiling  indul 
gently  on  her  deduction. 

"A  little  bird  of  prey  then — a  vulture,  I  should  say — " 
another  man  interpolated. 

"Oh,  I  'm  not  with  you  there,"  said  Dresham  easily. 
"Those  letters  belonged  to  the  public." 

"How  can  any  letters  belong  to  the  public  that  were  n't 
written  to  the  public  ? "  Mrs.  Touchett  interposed. 

"Well,  these  were,  in  a  sense.  A  personality  as  big  as 
Margaret  Aubyn's  belongs  to  the  world.  Such  a  mind  is 
part  of  the  general  fund  of  thought.  It 's  the  penalty  of 
[306] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

greatness — one  becomes  a  monument  historique.  Posterity 
pays  the  cost  of  keeping  one  up,  but  on  condition  that  one 
is  always  open  to  the  public." 

"I  don't  see  that  that  exonerates  the  man  who  gives  up 
the  keys  of  the  sanctuary,  as  it  were." 

"Who  was  he?"  another  voice  inquired. 

"Who  was  he?  Oh,  nobody,  I  fancy — the  letter-box,  the 
slit  in  the  wall  through  which  the  letters  passed  to  pos 
terity.  .  .  ." 

"But  she  never  meant  them  for  posterity  !" 

"A  woman  should  n't  write  such  letters  if  she  does  n't 
mean  them  to  be  published.  ..." 

"She  shouldn't  write  them  to  such  a  man!"  Mrs. 
Touchett  scornfully  corrected. 

"I  never  keep  letters,"  said  Mrs.  Armiger,  under  the 
obvious  impression  that  she  was  contributing  a  valuable 
point  to  the  discussion. 

There  was  a  general  laugh,  and  Flamel,  who  had  not 
spoken,  said  lazily,  "You  women  are  too  incurably  sub 
jective.  I  venture  to  say  that  most  men  would  see  in  those 
letters  merely  their  immense  literary  value,  their  signifi 
cance  as  documents.  The  personal  side  does  n't  count 
where  there  's  so  much  else." 

"Oh,  we  all  know  you  haven't  any  principles,"  Mrs. 
Armiger  declared;  and  Alexa  Glennard,  lifting  an  indolent 
smile,  said:  "I  shall  never  write  you  a  love-letter,  Mr. 
Flamel." 

[307] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Glennard  moved  away  impatiently.  Such  talk  was  as 
tedious  as  the  buzzing  of  gnats.  He  wondered  why  his  wife 
had  wanted  to  drag  him  on  such  a  senseless  expedition. 
.  .  .  He  hated  Flamel's  crowd — and  what  business  had 
Flamel  himself  to  interfere  in  that  way,  standing  up  for 
the  publication  of  the  letters  as  though  Glennard  needed 
his  defence  ?  .  .  . 

Glennard  turned  his  head  and  saw  that  Flamel  had 
drawn  a  seat  to  Alexa's  elbow  and  was  speaking  to  her  in  a 
low  tone.  The  other  groups  had  scattered,  straying  in  twos 
along  the  deck.  It  came  over  Glennard  that  he  should  never 
again  be  able  to  see  Flamel  speaking  to  his  wife  without 
the  sense  of  sick  mistrust  that  now  loosened  his  joints.  .  .  . 

Alexa,  the  next  morning,  over  their  early  breakfast, 
surprised  her  husband  by  an  unexpected  request. 

"Will  you  bring  me  those  letters  from  town  ?  "  she  asked. 

"What  letters?"  he  said,  putting  down  his  cup.  He  felt 
himself  as  vulnerable  as  a  man  who  is  lunged  at  in  the 
dark. 

"Mrs.  Aubyn's.  The  book  they  were  all  talking  about 
yesterday." 

Glennard,  carefully  measuring  his  second  cup  of  tea, 
said  with  deliberation,  "I  did  n't  know  you  cared  about 
that  sort  of  thing." 

She  was,  in  fact,  not  a  great  reader,  and  a  new  book  sel 
dom  reached  her  till  it  was,  so  to  speak,  on  the  home 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

stretch;  but  she  replied  with  a  gentle  tenacity,  "I  think  it 
would  interest  me  because  I  read  her  life  last  year." 

"Her  life?  Where  did  you  get  that?" 

"Some  one  lent  it  to  me  when  it  came  out — Mr.  Flamel, 
I  think." 

His  first  impulse  was  to  exclaim,  "Why  the  devil  do  you 
borrow  books  of  Flamel  ?  I  can  buy  you  all  you  want — 
but  he  felt  himself  irresistibly  forced  into  an  attitude  of 
smiling  compliance.  "Flamel  always  has  the  newest  books 
going,  has  n't  he  ?  You  must  be  careful,  by  the  way,  about 
returning  what  he  lends  you.  He  's  rather  crotchety  about 
his  library." 

"Oh,  I'm  always  very  careful,"  she  said,  with  a  touch  of 
competence  that  struck  him;  and  she  added,  as  he  caught 
up  his  hat:  "Don't  forget  the  letters." 

Why  had  she  asked  for  the  book  ?  Was  her  sudden  wish 
to  see  it  the  result  of  some  hint  of  Flamel's  ?  The  thought 
turned  Glennard  sick,  but  he  preserved  sufficient  lucidity 
to  tell  himself,  a  moment  later,  that  his  last  hope  of  self- 
control  would  be  lost  if  he  yielded  to  the  temptation  of 
seeing  a  hidden  purpose  in  everything  she  said  and  did. 
How  much  Flamel  guessed,  he  had  no  means  of  divining; 
nor  could  he  predicate,  from  what  he  knew  of  the  man,  to 
what  use  his  inferences  might  be  put.  The  very  qualities 
that  had  made  Flamel  a  useful  adviser  made  him  the  most 
dangerous  of  accomplices.  Glennard  felt  himself  agrope 
among  alien  forces  that  his  own  act  had  set  in  motion.  .  .  . 
[  309  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Alexa  was  a  woman  of  few  requirements;  but  her  wishes, 
even  in  trifles,  had  a  definiteness  that  distinguished  them 
from  the  fluid  impulses  of  her  kind.  He  knew  that,  having 
once  asked  for  the  book,  she  would  not  forget  it;  and  he 
put  aside,  as  an  ineffectual  expedient,  his  momentary  idea 
of  applying  for  it  at  the  circulating  library  and  telling  her 
that  all  the  copies  were  out.  If  the  book  was  to  be  bought, 
it  had  better  be  bought  at  once.  He  left  his  office  earlier 
than  usual  and  turned  in  at  the  first  bookshop  on  his  way 
to  the  train.  The  show-window  was  stacked  with  conspicu 
ously  lettered  volumes.  Margaret  Aubyn  flashed  back  at 
him  in  endless  iteration.  He  plunged  into  the  shop  and 
came  on  a  counter  where  the  name  repeated  itself  on  row 
after  row  of  bindings.  It  seemed  to  have  driven  the  rest  of 
literature  to  the  back  shelves.  He  caught  up  a  copy,  toss 
ing  the  money  to  an  astonished  clerk,  who  pursued  him 
to  the  door  with  the  unheeded  offer  to  wrap  up  the  vol 
umes. 

In  the  street  he  was  seized  with  a  sudden  apprehension. 
What  if  he  were  to  meet  Flamel  ?  The  thought  was  intol 
erable.  He  called  a  cab  and  drove  straight  to  the  station, 
where,  amid  the  palm-leaf  fans  of  a  perspiring  crowd,  he 
waited  a  long  half-hour  for  his  train  to  start. 

He  had  thrust  a  volume  in  either  pocket,  and  in  the 

train  he  dared  not  draw  them  out;  but  the  detested  words 

leaped  at  him  from  the  folds  of  the  evening  paper.  The  air 

seemed  full  of  Margaret  Aubyn's  name;  the  motion  of  the 

[  3101 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

train  set  it  dancing  up  and  down  on  the  page  of  a  maga 
zine  that  a  man  in  front  of  him  was  reading.  .  .  . 

At  the  door  he  was  told  that  Mrs.  Glennard  was  still 
out,  and  he  went  upstairs  to  his  room  and  dragged  the 
books  from  his  pocket.  They  lay  on  the  table  before  him 
like  live  things  that  he  feared  to  touch.  ...  At  length  he 
opened  the  first  volume.  A  familiar  letter  sprang  out  at 
him,  each  word  quickened  by  its  glaring  garb  of  type.  The 
little  broken  phrases  fled  across  the  page  like  wounded 
animals  in  the  open.  ...  It  was  a  horrible  sight  ...  a 
battue  of  helpless  things  driven  savagely  out  of  shelter. 
He  had  not  known  it  would  be  like  this.  .  .  . 

He  understood  now  that,  at  the  moment  of  selling  the 
letters,  he  had  viewed  the  transaction  solely  as  it  affected 
himself:  as  an  unfortunate  blemish  on  an  otherwise  pre 
sentable  record.  He  had  scarcely  considered  the  act  in 
relation  to  Margaret  Aubyn;  for  death,  if  it  hallows,  also 
makes  innocuous.  Glennard's  God  was  a  god  of  the  living, 
of  the  immediate,  the  actual,  the  tangible;  all  his  days  he 
had  lived  in  the  presence  of  that  god,  heedless  of  the 
divinities  who,  below  the  surface  of  our  deeds  and  passions, 
silently  forge  the  fatal  weapons  of  the  dead. 


311  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 


VH 


A      KNOCK  roused  him,  and  looking  up  he  saw  his 
wife.  He  met  her  glance  in  silence,  and  she  faltered 
out,  "Are  you  ill?" 

The  words  restored  his  self-possession.  "HI?  Of  course 
not.  They  told  me  you  were  out  and  I  came  upstairs." 

The  books  lay  between  them  on  the  table;  he  wondered 
when  she  would  see  them.  She  lingered  tentatively  on  the 
threshold,  with  the  air  of  leaving  his  explanation  on  his 
hands.  She  was  not  the  kind  of  woman  who  could  be 
counted  on  to  fortify  an  excuse  by  appearing  to  dispute  it. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  Glennard  asked,  moving 
forward  so  that  he  obstructed  her  vision  of  the  books. 

"I  walked  over  to  the  Dreshams'  for  tea." 

"I  can't  think  what  you  see  in  those  people,"  he  said 
with  a  shrug;  adding,  uncontrollably — "I  suppose  Flamel 
was  there?" 

"No;  he  left  on  the  yacht  this  morning." 

An  answer  so  obstructing  to  the  natural  escape  of  his 
irritation  left  Glennard  with  no  momentary  resource  but 
that  of  strolling  impatiently  to  the  window.  As  her  eyes 
followed  him  they  lit  on  the  books. 

"Ah,  you  've  brought  them !  I  'm  so  glad,"  she  said. 

He  answered  over  his  shoulder,  "For  a  woman  who 
never  reads  you  make  the  most  astounding  exceptions!" 
[312] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Her  smile  was  an  exasperating  concession  to  the  proba 
bility  that  it  had  been  hot  in  town  or  that  something  had 
bothered  him. 

"Do  you  mean  it 's  not  nice  to  want  to  read  the  book  ?" 
she  asked.  "It  was  not  nice  to  publish  it,  certainly;  but 
after  all,  I'm  not  responsible  for  that,  am  I?"  She  paused, 
and,  as  he  made  no  answer,  went  on,  still  smiling,  "I  do 
read  sometimes,  you  know;  and  I'm  very  fond  of  Margaret 
Aubyn's  books.  I  was  reading  Pomegranate  Seed  when  we 
first  met.  Don't  you  remember  ?  It  was  then  you  told  me 
all  about  her." 

Glennard  had  turned  back  into  the  room  and  stood 
staring  at  his  wife.  "All  about  her?"  he  repeated,  and  with 
the  words  remembrance  came  to  him.  He  had  found  Miss 
Trent  one  afternoon  with  the  novel  in  her  hand,  and 
moved  by  the  lover's  fatuous  impulse  to  associate  himself 
in  some  way  with  whatever  fills  the  mind  of  the  beloved, 
had  broken  through  his  habitual  silence  about  the  past. 
Rewarded  by  the  consciousness  of  figuring  impressively  in 
Miss  Trent's  imagination,  he  had  gone  on  from  one  anec 
dote  to  another,  reviving  dormant  details  of  his  old  Hill- 
bridge  life,  and  pasturing  his  vanity  on  the  eagerness  with 
which  she  listened  to  his  reminiscences  of  a  being  already 
clothed  in  the  impersonality  of  greatness. 

The  incident  had  left  no  trace  in  his  mind;  but  it  sprang 
up  now  like  an  old  enemy,  the  more  dangerous  for  having 
been  forgotten.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation — some- 
[  3131 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

times  the  most  perilous  that  man  can  exercise — made  him 
awkwardly  declare:  "Oh,  I  used  to  see  her  at  people's 
houses,  that  was  all;"  and  her  silence  as  usual  leaving 
room  for  a  multiplication  of  blunders,  he  added,  with  in 
creased  indifference,  "I  simply  can't  see  what  you  can 
find  to  interest  you  in  such  a  book." 

She  seemed  to  consider  this  intently.  "You  've  read  it, 
then?" 

"I  glanced  at  it — I  never  read  such  things." 

"Is  it  true  that  she  did  n't  wish  the  letters  to  be  pub 
lished?" 

Glennard  felt  the  sudden  dizziness  of  the  mountaineer 
on  a  narrow  ledge,  and  with  it  the  sense  that  he  was  lost 
if  he  looked  more  than  a  step  ahead. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  he  said;  then,  summoning  a 
smile,  he  passed  his  hand  through  her  arm.  "7  did  n't  have 
tea  at  the  Dreshams',  you  know;  won't  you  give  me  some 
now?"  he  suggested. 

That  evening  Glennard,  under  pretext  of  work  to  be 
done,  shut  himself  into  the  small  study  opening  off  the 
drawing-room.  As  he  gathered  up  his  papers  he  said  to  his 
wife:  "You  're  not  going  to  sit  indoors  on  such  a  night  as 
this  ?  I  '11  join  you  presently  outside." 

But  she  had  drawn  her  arm-chair  to  the  lamp.  "I  want 
to  look  at  my  book,"  she  said,  taking  up  the  first  volume 
of  the  Letters. 

[3141 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Glennard,  with  a  shrug,  withdrew  into  the  study. 
"I  'm  going  to  shut  the  door;  I  want  to  be  quiet,"  he  ex 
plained  from  the  threshold;  and  she  nodded  without  lifting 
her  eyes  from  the  book. 

He  sank  into  a  chair,  staring  aimlessly  at  the  outspread 
papers.  How  was  he  to  work,  while  on  the  other  side  of  the 
door  she  sat  with  that  volume  in  her  hand  ?  The  door  did 
not  shut  her  out — he  saw  her  distinctly,  felt  her  close  to 
him  in  a  contact  as  painful  as  the  pressure  on  a  bruise. 

The  sensation  was  part  of  the  general  strangeness  that 
made  him  feel  like  a  man  waking  from  a  long  sleep  to  find 
himself  in  an  unknown  country  among  people  of  alien 
tongue.  We  live  in  our  own  souls  as  in  an  unmapped 
region,  a  few  acres  of  which  we  have  cleared  for  our  habi 
tation;  while  of  the  nature  of  those  nearest  us  we  know 
but  the  boundaries  that  march  with  ours.  Of  the  points 
in  his  wife's  character  not  in  direct  contact  with  his  own, 
Glennard  now  discerned  his  ignorance;  and  the  baffling 
sense  of  her  remoteness  was  intensified  by  the  discovery 
that,  in  one  way,  she  was  closer  to  him  than  ever  before. 
As  one  may  live  for  years  in  happy  unconsciousness  of  the 
possession  of  a  sensitive  nerve,  he  had  lived  beside  his 
wife  unaware  that  her  individuality  had  become  a  part  of 
the  texture  of  his  life,  ineradicable  as  some  growth  on  a 
vital  organ;  and  he  now  felt  himself  at  once  incapable  of 
forecasting  her  judgment  and  powerless  to  evade  its  effects. 

To  escape,  the  next  morning,  the  confidences  of  the 
[  315  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

breakfast-table,  he  went  to  town  earlier  than  usual.  His 
wife,  who  read  slowly,  was  given  to  talking  over  what  she 
read,  and  at  present  his  first  object  in  life  was  to  postpone 
the  inevitable  discussion  of  the  letters.  This  instinct  of 
protection,  in  the  afternoon,  on  his  way  up  town,  guided 
him  to  the  club  in  search  of  a  man  who  might  be  per 
suaded  to  come  out  to  the  country  to  dine.  The  only  man 
in  the  club  was  Flamel. 

Glennard,  as  he  heard  himself  almost  involuntarily 
pressing  Flamel  to  come  and  dine,  felt  the  full  irony  of  the 
situation.  To  use  Flamel  as  a  shield  against  his  wife's  scru 
tiny  was  only  a  shade  less  humiliating  than  to  reckon  on 
his  wife  as  a  defence  against  Flamel. 

He  felt  a  contradictory  movement  of  annoyance  at  the 
latter's  ready  acceptance,  and  the  two  men  drove  in 
silence  to  the  station.  As  they  passed  the  bookstall  in  the 
waiting-room  Flamel  lingered  a  moment,  and  the  eyes  of 
both  fell  on  Margaret  Aubyn's  name,  conspicuously  dis 
played  above  a  counter  stacked  with  the  familiar  volumes. 

"We  shall  be  late,  you  know,"  Glennard  remonstrated, 
pulling  out  his  watch. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Flamel  imperturbably.  "I  want  to  get 
something — " 

Glennard  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  down  the  plat 
form.  Flamel  rejoined  him  with  an  innocent-looking  maga 
zine  in  his  hand;  but  Glennard  dared  not  even  glance  at  the 
cover,  lest  it  should  show  the  syllables  he  feared. 
[  316  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

The  train  was  full  of  people  they  knew,  and  they  were 
kept  apart  till  it  dropped  them  at  the  little  suburban  sta 
tion.  As  they  strolled  up  the  shaded  hill,  Glennard  talked 
volubly,  pointing  out  the  improvements  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  deploring  the  threatened  approach  of  an  electric  rail 
way,  and  screening  himself  by  a  series  of  reflex  adjust 
ments  from  the  risk  of  any  allusion  to  the  Letters.  Flamel 
suffered  his  discourse  with  the  bland  inattention  that  we 
accord  to  the  affairs  of  some  one  else's  suburb,  and  they 
reached  the  shelter  of  Alexa's  tea-table  without  a  per 
ceptible  turn  toward  the  dreaded  topic. 

The  dinner  passed  off  safely.  Flamel,  always  at  his  best 
in  Alexa's  presence,  gave  her  the  kind  of  attention  which 
is  like  a  becoming  light  thrown  on  the  speaker's  words: 
his  answers  seemed  to  bring  out  a  latent  significance  in 
her  phrases,  as  the  sculptor  draws  his  statue  from  the 
block.  Glennard,  under  his  wife's  composure,  detected  a 
sensibility  to  this  manoeuvre,  and  the  discovery  was  like 
the  lightning-flash  across  a  nocturnal  landscape.  Thus  far 
these  momentary  illuminations  had  served  only  to  reveal 
the  strangeness  of  the  intervening  country:  each  fresh 
observation  seemed  to  increase  the  sum-total  of  his  igno 
rance.  Her  simplicity  of  outline  was  more  puzzling  than 
a  complex  surface.  One  may  conceivably  work  one's  way 
through  a  labyrinth;  but  Alexa's  candor  was  like  a  snow- 
covered  plain,  where,  the  road  once  lost,  there  are  no  land 
marks  to  travel  by. 

[317] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Dinner  over,  they  returned  to  the  veranda,  where  a 
moon,  rising  behind  the  old  elm,  was  combining  with  that 
complaisant  tree  a  romantic  enlargement  of  their  borders. 
Glennard  had  forgotten  the  cigars.  He  went  to  his  study 
to  fetch  them,  and  in  passing  through  the  drawing-room  he 
saw  the  second  volume  of  the  Letters  lying  open  on  his 
wife's  table.  He  picked  up  the  book  and  looked  at  the  date 
of  the  letter  she  had  been  reading.  It  was  one  of  the  last 
...  he  knew  the  few  lines  by  heart.  He  dropped  the  book 
and  leaned  against  the  wall.  Why  had  he  included  that 
one  among  the  others?  Or  was  it  possible  that  now  they 
would  all  seem  like  that  .  .  .  ? 

Alexa's  voice  came  suddenly  out  of  the  dusk.  "May 
Touchett  was  right — it  is  like  listening  at  a  keyhole.  I 
wish  I  had  n't  read  it !" 

Flamel  returned,  in  the  leisurely  tone  of  the  man  whose 
phrases  are  punctuated  by  a  cigarette,  "It  seems  so  to  us, 
perhaps;  but  to  another  generation  the  book  will  be  a 
classic." 

"Then  it  ought  not  to  have  been  published  till  it  had 
time  to  become  a  classic.  It 's  horrible,  it 's  degrading 
almost,  to  read  the  secrets  of  a  woman  one  might  have 
known."  She  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  "Stephen  did  know 
her—" 

"Did  he?"  came  from  Flamel. 

"He  knew  her  very  well,  at  Hillbridge,  years  ago.  The 
book  has  made  him  feel  dreadfully  ...  he  would  n't  read 
[318] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

it  ...  he  did  n't  want  me  to  read  it.  I  did  n't  under 
stand  at  first,  but  now  I  can  see  how  horribly  disloyal  it 
must  seem  to  him.  It 's  so  much  worse  to  surprise  a 
friend's  secrets  than  a  stranger's." 

"Oh,  Glennard  's  such  a  sensitive  chap,"  Flamel  said 
easily;  and  Alexa  almost  rebukingly  rejoined,  "If  you'd 
known  her  I  'm  sure  you  'd  feel  as  he  does.  ..." 

Glennard  stood  motionless,  overcome  by  the  singular 
infelicity  with  which  he  had  contrived  to  put  Flamel  in 
possession  of  the  two  points  most  damaging  to  his  case: 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  a  friend  of  Margaret  Aubyn's 
and  that  he  had  concealed  from  Alexa  his  share  in  the 
publication  of  the  letters.  To  a  man  of  less  than  Flamel's 
astuteness  it  must  now  be  clear  to  whom  the  letters  were 
addressed;  and  the  possibility  once  suggested,  nothing 
could  be  easier  than  to  confirm  it  by  discreet  research. 
An  impulse  of  self-accusal  drove  Glennard  to  the  window. 
Why  not  anticipate  betrayal  by  telling  his  wife  the  truth 
in  Flamel's  presence?  If  the  man  had  a  drop  of  decent 
feeling  in  him,  such  a  course  would  be  the  surest  means 
of  securing  his  silence;  and  above  all,  it  would  rid  Glen 
nard  of  the  necessity  of  defending  himself  against  the  per 
petual  criticism  of  his  wife's  belief  in  him.  .  .  . 

The  impulse  was  strong  enough  to  carry  him  to  the 

window;  but  there  a  reaction  of  defiance  set  in.  What  had 

he  done,  after  all,  to  need  defence  and  explanation  ?  Both 

Dresham  and  Flamel  had,  in  his  hearing,  declared  the  pub- 

[3191 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

lication  of  the  letters  to  be  not  only  justifiable  but  obli 
gatory;  and  if  the  disinterestedness  of  Flamel's  verdict 
might  be  questioned,  Dresham's  at  least  represented  the 
impartial  view  of  the  man  of  letters.  As  to  Alexa's  words, 
they  were  simply  the  conventional  utterance  of  the  "nice" 
woman  on  a  question  already  decided  for  her  by  other 
"nice"  women.  She  had  said  the  proper  thing  as  mechan 
ically  as  she  would  have  put  on  the  appropriate  gown  or 
written  the  correct  form  of  dinner  invitation.  Glennard 
had  small  faith  in  the  abstract  judgments  of  the  other  sex: 
he  knew  that  half  the  women  who  were  horrified  by  the 
publication  of  Mrs.  Aubyn's  letters  would  have  betrayed 
her  secrets  without  a  scruple. 

The  sudden  lowering  of  his  emotional  pitch  brought  a 
proportionate  relief.  He  told  himself  that  now  the  worst 
was  over  and  things  would  fall  into  perspective  again.  His 
wife  and  Flamel  had  turned  to  other  topics,  and  coming 
out  on  the  veranda,  he  handed  the  cigars  to  Flamel,  saying 
cheerfully — and  yet  he  could  have  sworn  they  were  the 
last  words  he  meant  to  utter ! — "Look  here,  old  man,  be 
fore  you  go  down  to  Newport  you  must  come  out  and 
spend  a  few  days  with  us — must  n't  he,  Alexa?" 


[  320  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 


VIII 


LENNARD,  perhaps  unconsciously,  had  counted  on 
the  continuance  of  this  easier  mood.  He  had  always 
taken  pride  in  a  certain  robustness  of  fibre  that  enabled 
him  to  harden  himself  against  the  inevitable,  to  convert 
his  failures  into  the  building  materials  of  success.  Though 
it  did  not  even  now  occur  to  him  that  what  he  called  the 
inevitable  had  hitherto  been  the  alternative  he  happened 
to  prefer,  he  was  yet  obscurely  aware  that  his  present 
difficulty  was  one  not  to  be  conjured  by  any  affectation 
of  indifference.  Some  griefs  build  the  soul  a  spacious 
house,  but  in  this  misery  of  Glennard's  he  could  not  stand 
upright.  It  pressed  against  him  at  every  turn.  He  told  him 
self  that  this  was  because  there  was  no  escape  from  the 
visible  evidences  of  his  act.  The  Letters  confronted  him 
everywhere.  People  who  had  never  opened  a  book  dis 
cussed  them  with  critical  reservations;  to  have  read  them 
had  become  a  social  obligation  in  circles  to  which  liter 
ature  never  penetrates  except  in  a  personal  guise. 

Glennard  did  himself  injustice.  It  was  from  the  unex 
pected  discovery  of  his  own  pettiness  that  he  chiefly 
suffered.  Our  self-esteem  is  apt  to  be  based  on  the  hypo 
thetical  great  act  we  have  never  had  occasion  to  perform; 
and  even  the  most  self-scrutinizing  modesty  credits  itself 
negatively  with  a  high  standard  of  conduct.  Glennard  had 
[321] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

never  thought  himself  a  hero;  but  he  had  been  certain  that 
he  was  incapable  of  baseness.  We  all  like  our  wrong-doings 
to  have  a  becoming  cut,  to  be  made  to  order,  as  it  were; 
and  Glennard  found  himself  suddenly  thrust  into  a  garb 
of  dishonor  surely  meant  for  a  meaner  figure. 

The  immediate  result  of  his  first  weeks  of  wretchedness 
was  the  resolve  to  go  to  town  for  the  winter.  He  knew 
that  such  a  course  was  just  beyond  the  limit  of  prudence; 
but  it  was  easy  to  allay  the  fears  of  Alexa,  who,  scrupu 
lously  vigilant  in  the  management  of  the  household,  pre 
served  the  American  wife's  usual  aloofness  from  her  hus 
band's  business  cares.  Glennard  felt  that  he  could  not 
trust  himself  to  a  winter's  solitude  with  her.  He  had  an 
unspeakable  dread  of  her  learning  the  truth  about  the  let 
ters,  yet  could  not  be  sure  of  steeling  himself  against  the 
suicidal  impulse  of  avowal.  His  very  soul  was  parched  for 
sympathy;  he  thirsted  for  a  voice  of  pity  and  comprehen 
sion.  But  would  his  wife  pity?  Would  she  understand? 
Again  he  found  himself  brought  up  abruptly  against  his 
incredible  ignorance  of  her  nature.  The  fact  that  he  knew 
well  enough  how  she  would  behave  in  the  ordinary  emer 
gencies  of  life,  that  he  could  count,  in  such  contingencies, 
on  the  kind  of  high  courage  and  directness  he  had  always 
divined  in  her,  made  him  the  more  hopeless  of  her  entering 
into  the  tortuous  psychology  of  an  act  that  he  himself 
could  no  longer  explain  or  understand.  It  would  have  been 
easier  had  she  been  more  complex,  more  feminine — if  he 
[  322  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

could  have  counted  on  l>er  imaginative  sympathy  or  her 
moral  obtuseness — but  he  was  sure  of  neither.  He  was  sure 
of  nothing  but  that,  for  a  time,  he  must  avoid  her.  Glen- 
nard  could  not  rid  himself  of  the  delusion  that  by  and  by 
his  action  would  cease  to  make  its  consequences  felt.  He 
would  not  have  cared  to  own  to  himself  that  he  counted 
on  the  dulling  of  his  sensibilities:  he  preferred  to  indulge 
the  vague  hypothesis  that  extraneous  circumstances 
would  somehow  efface  the  blot  upon  his  conscience.  In  his 
worst  moments  of  self-abasement  he  tried  to  find  solace  in 
the  thought  that  Flamel  had  sanctioned  his  course. 
Flamel,  at  the  outset,  must  have  guessed  to  whom  the 
letters  were  addressed;  yet  neither  then  nor  afterward 
had  he  hesitated  to  advise  their  publication.  This  thought 
drew  Glennard  to  him  in  fitful  impulses  of  friendliness, 
from  each  of  which  there  was  a  sharper  reaction  of  distrust 
and  aversion.  When  Flamel  was  not  at  the  house,  he  missed 
the  support  of  his  tacit  connivance;  when  he  was  there,  his 
presence  seemed  the  assertion  of  an  intolerable  claim. 

Early  in  the  winter  the  Glennards  took  possession  of  the 
little  house  that  was  to  cost  them  almost  nothing.  The 
change  brought  Glennard  the  relief  of  seeing  less  of  his 
wife,  and  of  being  protected,  in  her  presence,  by  the  mul 
tiplied  preoccupations  of  town  life.  Alexa,  who  could  never 
appear  hurried,  showed  the  smiling  abstraction  of  a  pretty 
woman  to  whom  the  social  side  of  married  life  has  not  lost 
its  novelty.  Glennard,  with  the  recklessness  of  a  man  fresh 
[  323  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

from  his  first  financial  imprudence,  encouraged  her  in  such 
little  extravagances  as  her  good  sense  at  first  resisted. 
Since  they  had  come  to  town,  he  argued,  they  might  as 
well  enjoy  themselves.  He  took  a  sympathetic  view  of  the 
necessity  of  new  gowns,  he  gave  her  a  set  of  furs  at  Christ 
mas,  and  before  the  New  Year  they  had  agreed  on  the 
necessity  of  adding  a  parlor-maid  to  their  small  establish 
ment. 

Providence  the  very  next  day  hastened  to  justify  this 
measure  by  placing  on  Glennard's  breakfast-plate  an  en 
velope  bearing  the  name  of  the  publishers  to  whom  he  had 
sold  Mrs.  Aubyn's  letters.  It  happened  to  be  the  only  letter 
the  early  post  had  brought,  and  he  glanced  across  the  table 
at  his  wife,  who  had  come  down  before  him  and  had  prob 
ably  laid  the  envelope  on  his  plate.  She  was  not  the  woman 
to  ask  awkward  questions,  but  he  felt  the  conjecture  of 
her  glance,  and  he  was  debating  whether  to  affect  surprise 
at  the  receipt  of  the  letter,  or  to  pass  it  off  as  a  business 
communication  that  had  strayed  to  his  house,  when  a 
check  fell  from  the  envelope.  It  was  the  royalty  on  the 
first  edition  of  the  letters.  His  first  feeling  was  one  of  sim 
ple  satisfaction.  The  money  had  come  with  such  infernal 
opportuneness  that  he  could  not  help  welcoming  it.  Before 
long,  too,  there  would  be  more;  he  knew  the  book  was  still 
selling  far  beyond  the  publishers'  previsions.  He  put  the 
check  in  his  pocket  and  left  the  room  without  looking  at 
his  wife. 

[334] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

On  the  way  to  his  office  the  habitual  reaction  set  in. 
The  money  he  had  received  was  the  first  tangible  reminder 
that  he  was  living  on  the  sale  of  his  self-esteem.  The 
thought  of  material  benefit  had  been  overshadowed  by  his 
sense  of  the  intrinsic  baseness  of  making  the  letters  known: 
now  he  saw  what  an  element  of  sordidness  it  added  to  the 
situation  and  how  the  fact  that  he  needed  the  money,  and 
must  use  it,  pledged  him  more  irrevocably  than  ever  to 
the  consequences  of  his  act.  It  seemed  to  him,  in  that  first 
hour  of  misery,  that  he  had  betrayed  his  friend  anew. 

When,  that  afternoon,  he  reached  home  earlier  than 
usual,  Alexa's  drawing-room  was  full  of  a  gayety  that  over 
flowed  to  the  stairs.  Flamel,  for  a  wonder,  was  not  there; 
but  Dresham  and  young  Hartly,  grouped  about  the  tea- 
table,  were  receiving  with  resonant  mirth  a  narrative 
delivered  in  the  fluttered  staccato  that  made  Mrs.  Ar- 
miger's  conversation  like  the  ejaculations  of  a  startled 
aviary. 

She  paused  as  Glennard  entered,  and  he  had  time  to 
notice  that  his  wife,  who  was  busied  about  the  tea-tray, 
had  not  joined  in  the  laughter  of  the  men. 

"Oh,  go  on,  go  on,"  young  Hartly  rapturously  groaned; 
and  Mrs.  Armiger  met  Glennard's  inquiry  with  the  dep 
recating  cry  that  really  she  did  n't  see  what  there  was  to 
laugh  at.  "I  'm  sure  I  feel  more  like  crying.  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done  if  Alexa  had  n't  been  at  home  to 
give  me  a  cup  of  tea.  My  nerves  are  in  shreds — yes,  an- 
[  325  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

other,  dear,  please — "  and  as  Glennard  looked  his  per 
plexity,  she  went  on,  after  pondering  on  the  selection  of  a 
second  lump  of  sugar,  "Why,  I've  just  come  from  the 
reading,  you  know — the  reading  at  the  Waldorf." 

"I  have  n't  been  in  town  long  enough  to  know  any 
thing,"  said  Glennard,  taking  the  cup  his  wife  handed 
him.  "Who  has  been  reading  what?" 

"That  lovely  girl  from  the  South — Georgie — Georgie 
What  's-her-name — Mrs.  Dresham's  protegee — unless  she 's 
yours,  Mr.  Dresham !  Why,  the  big  ball-room  was  packed, 
and  all  the  women  were  crying  like  idiots — it  was  the  most 
harrowing  thing  I  ever  heard — " 

"What  did  you  hear?"  Glennard  asked;  and  his  wife 
interposed:  "Won't  you  have  another  bit  of  cake,  Julia? 
Or,  Stephen,  ring  for  some  hot  toast,  please."  Her  tone 
betrayed  a  polite  weariness  of  the  topic  under  discussion. 
Glennard  turned  to  the  bell,  but  Mrs.  Armiger  pursued  him 
with  her  lovely  amazement. 

"Why,  the  Aubyn  Letters — did  n't  you  know  about  it? 
She  read  them  so  beautifully  that  it  was  quite  horrible — 
I  should  have  fainted  if  there  'd  been  a  man  near  enough 
to  carry  me  out." 

Hartly's  glee  redoubled,  and  Dresham  said  jovially, 
"How  like  you  women  to  raise  a  shriek  over  the  book  and 
then  do  all  you  can  to  encourage  the  blatant  publicity  of 
the  readings!" 

Mrs.  Armiger  met  him  more  than  half-way  on  a  torrent 
[326  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

of  self-accusal.  "It  was  horrid;  it  was  disgraceful.  I  told 
your  wife  we  ought  all  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves  for 
going,  and  I  think  Alexa  was  quite  right  to  refuse  to  take 
any  tickets — even  if  it  was  for  a  charity." 

"Oh,"  her  hostess  murmured  indifferently,  "with  me 
charity  begins  at  home.  I  can't  afford  emotional  luxuries." 

"A  charity?  A  charity?"  Hartly  exulted.  "I  hadn't 
seized  the  full  beauty  of  it.  Reading  poor  Margaret  Au- 
byn's  love-letters  at  the  Waldorf  before  five  hundred  peo 
ple  for  a  charity !  What  charity,  dear  Mrs.  Armiger?" 

"Why,  the  Home  for  Friendless  Women " 

"It  was  well  chosen,"  Dresham  commented;  and  Hartly 
buried  his  mirth  in  the  sofa  cushions. 

When  they  were  alone  Glennard,  still  holding  his  un 
touched  cup  of  tea,  turned  to  his  wife,  who  sat  silently 
behind  the  kettle.  "Who  asked  you  to  take  a  ticket  for 
that  reading?" 

"I  don't  know,  really — Kate  Dresham,  I  fancy.  It  was 
she  who  got  it  up." 

"It 's  just  the  sort  of  damnable  vulgarity  she  's  capable 
of  !  It 's  loathsome — it 's  monstrous — 

His  wife,  without  looking  up,  answered  gravely,  "I 
thought  so  too.  It  was  for  that  reason  I  did  n't  go.  But 
you  must  remember  that  very  few  people  feel  about  Mrs. 
Aubyn  as  you  do — 

Glennard  managed  to  set  down  his  cup  with  a  steady 
[327] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

hand,  but  the  room  swung  round  with  him  and  he  dropped 
into  the  nearest  chair.  "As  I  do?"  he  repeated. 

"I  mean  that  very  few  people  knew  her  when  she  lived 
in  New  York.  To  most  of  the  women  who  went  to  the  read 
ing  she  was  a  mere  name,  too  remote  to  have  any  person 
ality.  With  me,  of  course,  it  was  different — " 

Glennard  gave  her  a  startled  look.  "Different?  Why 
different?" 

"Since  you  were  her  friend — " 

"Her  friend!"  He  stood  up.  "You  speak  as  if  she  had 
had  only  one — the  most  famous  woman  of  her  day !"  He 
moved  vaguely  about  the  room,  bending  down  to  look  at 
some  books  on  the  table.  "I  hope,"  he  added,  "you  did  n't 
give  that  as  a  reason  ?  " 

"A  reason?" 

"For  not  going.  A  woman  who  gives  reasons  for  getting 
out  of  social  obligations  is  sure  to  make  herself  unpopular 
or  ridiculous." 

The  words  were  uncalculated;  but  in  an  instant  he  saw 
that  they  had  strangely  bridged  the  distance  between  his 
wife  and  himself.  He  felt  her  close  on  him,  like  a  panting 
foe;  and  her  answer  was  a  flash  that  showed  the  hand  on 
the  trigger. 

"I  seem,"  she  said  from  the  threshold,  "to  have  done 
both  in  giving  my  reason  to  you." 

The  fact  that  they  were  dining  out  that  evening  made 
it  easy  for  him  to  avoid  Alexa  till  she  came  downstairs  in 
[  328  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

her  opera-cloak.  Mrs.  Touchett,  who  was  going  to  the  same 
dinner,  had  offered  to  call  for  her;  and  Glennard,  refusing 
a  precarious  seat  between  the  ladies'  draperies,  followed  on 
foot.  The  evening  was  interminable.  The  reading  at  the 
Waldorf,  at  which  all  the  women  had  been  present,  had 
revived  the  discussion  of  the  Avbyn  Letters,  and  Glen 
nard,  hearing  his  wife  questioned  as  to  her  absence,  felt 
himself  miserably  wishing  that  she  had  gone,  rather  than 
that  her  staying  away  should  have  been  remarked.  He 
was  rapidly  losing  all  sense  of  proportion  where  the  Letters 
were  concerned.  He  could  no  longer  hear  them  mentioned 
without  suspecting  a  purpose  in  the  allusion;  he  even 
yielded  himself  for  a  moment  to  the  extravagance  of  im 
agining  that  Mrs.  Dresham,  whom  he  disliked,  had  organ 
ized  the  reading  in  the  hope  of  making  him  betray  himself 
— for  he  was  already  sure  that  Dresham  had  divined  his 
share  in  the  transaction. 

The  attempt  to  keep  a  smooth  surface  on  this  inner 
tumult  was  as  endless  and  unavailing  as  efforts  made  in  a 
nightmare.  He  lost  all  sense  of  what  he  was  saying  to  his 
neighbors;  and  once  when  he  looked  up  his  wife's  glance 
struck  him  cold. 

She  sat  nearly  opposite  him,  at  Flamel's  side,  and  it 
appeared  to  Glennard  that  they  had  built  about  them 
selves  one  of  those  airy  barriers  of  talk  behind  which  two 
people  can  say  what  they  please.  While  the  reading  was 
discussed  they  were  silent.  Their  silence  seemed  to  Glen 
nard  almost  cynical — it  stripped  the  last  disguise  from 
[  329] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

their  complicity.  A  throb  of  anger  rose  in  him,  but  sud 
denly  it  fell,  and  he  felt,  with  a  curious  sense  of  relief,  that 
at  bottom  he  no  longer  cared  whether  Flamel  had  told  his 
wife  or  not.  The  assumption  that  Flamel  knew  about  the 
letters  had  become  a  fact  to  Glennard;  and  it  now  seemed 
to  him  better  that  Alexa  should  know  too. 

He  was  frightened  at  first  by  the  discovery  of  his  own 
indifference.  The  last  barriers  of  his  will  seemed  to  be 
breaking  down  before  a  flood  of  moral  lassitude.  How  could 
he  continue  to  play  his  part,  how  keep  his  front  to  the 
enemy,  with  this  poison  of  indifference  stealing  through 
his  veins  ?  He  tried  to  brace  himself  with  the  remembrance 
of  his  wife's  scorn.  He  had  not  forgotten  the  note  on  which 
their  conversation  had  closed.  If  he  had  ever  wondered 
how  she  would  receive  the  truth  he  wondered  no  longer — 
she  would  despise  him.  But  this  lent  a  new  insidiousness 
to  his  temptation,  since  her  contempt  would  be  a  refuge 
from  his  own.  He  said  to  himself  that,  since  he  no  longer 
cared  for  the  consequences,  he  could  at  least  acquit  him 
self  of  speaking  in  self-defence.  What  he  wanted  now  was 
not  immunity  but  castigation :  his  wife's  indignation  might 
still  reconcile  him  to  himself.  Therein  lay  his  one  hope  of 
regeneration;  her  scorn  was  the  moral  antiseptic  that  he 
needed,  her  comprehension  the  one  balm  that  could  heal 
him.  .  .  . 

When  they  left  the  dinner  he  was  so  afraid  of  speaking 
that  he  let  her  drive  home  alone,  and  went  to  the  club 
with  Flamel. 

[  330  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 


IX 


T  TE  rose  next  morning  with  the  resolve  to  know  what 
Alexa  thought  of  him.  It  was  not  anchoring  in  a 
haven  but  lying  to  in  a  storm — he  felt  the  need  of  a  tem 
porary  lull  in  the  turmoil  of  his  sensations. 

He  came  home  late,  for  they  were  dining  alone  and  he 
knew  that  they  would  have  the  evening  together.  When  he 
followed  her  to  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  he  thought 
himself  on  the  point  of  speaking;  but  as  she  handed  him 
his  coffee  he  said  involuntarily:  "I  shall  have  to  carry  this 
off  to  the  study;  I  've  got  a  lot  of  work  to-night." 

Alone  in  the  study  he  cursed  his  cowardice.  What  was 
it  that  had  withheld  him?  A  certain  bright  unapproach- 
ableness  seemed  to  keep  him  at  arm's  length.  She  was  not 
the  kind  of  woman  whose  compassion  could  be  circum 
vented;  there  was  no  chance  of  slipping  past  the  outposts 
— he  would  never  take  her  by  surprise.  Well — why  not 
face  her,  then?  What  he  shrank  from  could  be  no  worse 
than  what  he  was  enduring.  He  had  pushed  back  his  chair 
and  turned  to  go  upstairs  when  a  new  expedient  presented 
itself.  What  if,  instead  of  telling  her,  he  were  to  let  her 
find  out  for  herself  and  watch  the  effect  of  the  discovery 
before  speaking  ?  In  this  way  he  made  over  to  chance  the 
burden  of  the  revelation. 

The  idea  had  been  suggested  by  the  sight  of  the  formula 
enclosing  the  publisher's  check.  He  had  deposited  the 
[331  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

money,  but  the  notice  accompanying  it  dropped  from  his 
note-case  as  he  cleared  his  table  for  work.  It  was  the  for 
mula  usual  in  such  cases,  and  revealed  clearly  enough 
that  he  was  the  recipient  of  a  royalty  on  Margaret  Aubyn's 
letters.  It  would  be  impossible  for  Alexa  to  read  it  without 
understanding  at  once  that  the  letters  had  been  written 
to  him  and  that  he  had  sold  them. 

He  sat  downstairs  till  he  heard  her  ring  for  the  parlor 
maid  to  put  out  the  lights;  then  he  went  up  to  the  drawing- 
room  with  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand.  Alexa  was  just 
rising  from  her  seat,  and  the  lamplight  fell  on  the  deep  roll 
of  hair  that  overhung  her  brow  like  the  eaves  of  a  temple. 
Her  face  had  often  the  high  secluded  look  of  a  shrine;  and 
it  was  this  touch  of  awe  in  her  beauty  that  now  made 
him  feel  himself  on  the  brink  of  sacrilege. 

Lest  the  feeling  should  control  him,  he  spoke  at  once. 
"I  've  brought  you  a  piece  of  work — a  lot  of  old  bills  and 
things  that  I  want  you  to  sort  for  me.  Some  are  not  worth 
keeping — but  you  '11  be  able  to  judge  of  that.  There  may 
be  a  letter  or  two  among  them — nothing  of  much  account; 
but  I  don't  like  to  throw  away  the  whole  lot  without  having 
them  looked  over,  and  I  have  n't  time  to  do  it  myself." 

He  held  out  the  papers,  and  she  took  them  with  a  smile 
that  seemed  to  recognize  in  the  service  he  asked  the  tacit 
intention  of  making  amends  for  the  incident  of  the  previous 
day. 

"Are  you  sure  I  shall  know  which  to  keep?" 
[  332  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"Oh,  quite  sure,"  he  answered  easily;  "and  besides,  none 
are  of  much  importance." 

The  next  morning  he  invented  an  excuse  for  leaving 
the  house  without  seeing  her,  and  when  he  returned,  just 
before  dinner,  he  found  a  visitor's  hat  and  stick  in  the  hall. 
The  visitor  was  Flamel,  who  was  just  taking  leave. 

He  had  risen,  but  Alexa  remained  seated;  and  their 
attitude  gave  the  impression  of  a  colloquy  that  had  pro 
longed  itself  beyond  the  limits  of  speech.  Both  turned  a 
surprised  eye  on  Glennard,  and  he  had  the  sense  of  walk 
ing  into  a  room  grown  suddenly  empty,  as  though  their 
thoughts  were  conspirators  dispersed  by  his  approach.  He 
felt  the  clutch  of  his  old  fear.  What  if  his  wife  had  already 
sorted  the  papers  and  had  told  Flamel  of  her  discovery? 
Well,  it  was  no  news  to  Flamel  that  Glennard  was  in  re 
ceipt  of  a  royalty  on  the  Aubyn  Letters.  .  .  . 

A  sudden  resolve  to  know  the  worst  made  him  lift  his 
eyes  to  his  wife  as  the  door  closed  on  Flamel.  But  Alexa 
had  risen  also,  and  bending  over  her  writing-table,  with 
her  back  to  Glennard,  was  beginning  to  speak  precipitately. 

"I  'm  dining  out  to-night — you  don't  mind  my  desert 
ing  you  ?  Julia  Armiger  sent  me  word  just  now  that  she 
had  an  extra  ticket  for  the  last  Ambrose  concert.  She  told 
me  to  say  how  sorry  she  was  that  she  had  n't  two,  but  I 
knew  you  would  n't  be  sorry  ! "  She  ended  with  a  laugh  that 
had  the  effect  of  being  a  strayed  echo  of  Mrs.  Armiger's; 
and  before  Glennard  could  speak  she  had  added,  with  her 
[333  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

hand  on  the  door,  "Mr.  Flamel  stayed  so  late  that  I  've 
hardly  time  to  dress.  The  concert  begins  ridiculously  early, 
and  Julia  dines  at  half -past  seven." 

Glennard  stood  alone  in  the  empty  room  that  seemed 
somehow  full  of  an  ironical  consciousness  of  what  was 
happening.  "She  hates  me,"  he  murmured.  "She  hates 
me  .  .  ." 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Glennard  purposely 
lingered  late  in  his  room.  When  he  came  downstairs  his 
wife  was  already  seated  at  the  breakfast-table.  She  lifted 
her  usual  smile  to  his  entrance  and  they  took  shelter  in 
the  nearest  topic,  like  wayfarers  overtaken  by  a  storm. 
While  he  listened  to  her  account  of  the  concert  he  began 
to  think  that,  after  all,  she  had  not  yet  sorted  the  papers, 
and  that  her  agitation  of  the  previous  day  must  be  as 
cribed  to  another  cause,  in  which  perhaps  he  had  but  an 
indirect  concern.  He  wondered  it  had  never  before  oc 
curred  to  him  that  Flamel  was  the  kind  of  man  who  might 
very  well  please  a  woman  at  his  own  expense,  without 
need  of  fortuitous  assistance.  If  this  possibility  cleared  the 
outlook  it  did  not  brighten  it.  Glennard  merely  felt  himself 
left  alone  with  his  baseness. 

Alexa  left  the  breakfast-table  before  him,  and  when  he 
went  up  to  the  drawing-room  he  found  her  dressed  to  go 
out. 

"Are  n't  you  a  little  early  for  church?"  he  asked. 
[334] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

She  replied  that,  on  the  way  there,  she  meant  to  stop  a 
moment  at  her  mother's;  and  while  she  drew  on  her  gloves 
he  fumbled  among  the  knick-knacks  on  the  mantelpiece 
for  a  match  to  light  his  cigarette. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  she  said,  turning  to  go;  and  from  the 
threshold  she  added:  "By  the  way,  I've  sorted  the  papers 
you  gave  me.  Those  that  I  thought  you  would  like  to  keep 
are  on  your  study  table."  She  went  downstairs  and  he 
heard  the  door  close  behind  her. 

She  had  sorted  the  papers — she  knew,  then — she  must 
know — and  she  had  made  no  sign ! 

Glennard,  he  hardly  knew  how,  found  himself  once 
more  in  the  study.  On  the  table  lay  the  packet  he  had 
given  her.  It  was  much  smaller — she  had  evidently  gone 
over  the  papers  with  care,  destroying  the  greater  number. 
He  loosened  the  elastic  band  and  spread  the  remaining 
envelopes  on  his  desk.  The  publisher's  notice  was  among 
them. 


T  TIS  wife  knew  and  she  made  no  sign.  Glennard  found 
himself  in  the  case  of  the  seafarer  who,  closing  his 
eyes  at  nightfall  on  a  scene  he  thinks  to  put  leagues  behind 
him  before  day,  wakes  to  a  port-hole  framing  the  same 
patch  of  shore.  From  the  kind  of  exaltation  to  which  his  re 
solve  had  lifted  him  he  dropped  to  an  unreasoning  apathy. 
[335] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

His  impulse  of  confession  had  acted  as  a  drug  to  self-re 
proach.  He  had  tried  to  shift  a  portion  of  his  burden  to  his 
wife's  shoulders;  and  now  that  she  had  tacitly  refused  to 
carry  it,  he  felt  the  load  too  heavy  to  be  taken  up. 

A  fortunate  interval  of  hard  work  brought  respite  from 
this  phase  of  sterile  misery.  He  went  West  to  argue  an 
important  case,  won  it,  and  came  back  to  fresh  preoccu 
pations.  His  own  affairs  were  thriving  enough  to  engross 
him  in  the  pauses  of  his  professional  work,  and  for  over 
two  months  he  had  little  time  to  look  himself  in  the  face. 
Not  unnaturally — for  he  was  as  yet  unskilled  in  the  sub 
tleties  of  introspection — he  mistook  his  temporary  insen 
sibility  for  a  gradual  revival  of  moral  health. 

He  told  himself  that  he  was  recovering  his  sense  of  pro 
portion,  getting  to  see  things  in  their  true  light;  and  if  he 
now  thought  of  his  rash  appeal  to  his  wife's  sympathy  it 
was  as  an  act  of  folly  from  the  consequences  of  which  he 
had  been  saved  by  the  providence  that  watches  over  mad 
men.  He  had  little  leisure  to  observe  Alexa;  but  he  con 
cluded  that  the  common  sense  momentarily  denied  him 
had  counselled  her  silent  acceptance  of  the  inevitable.  If 
such  a  quality  was  a  poor  substitute  for  the  passionate 
justness  that  had  once  seemed  to  distinguish  her,  he  ac 
cepted  the  alternative  as  a  part  of  that  general  lowering 
of  the  key  that  seems  needful  to  the  maintenance  of  the 
matrimonial  duet.  What  woman  ever  retained  her  abstract 
sense  of  justice  where  another  woman  was  concerned? 
[  336  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Possibly  the  thought  that  he  had  profited  by  Mrs.  Aubyn's 
tenderness  was  not  wholly  disagreeable  to  his  wife. 

When  the  pressure  of  work  began  to  lessen,  and  he  found 
himself,  in  the  lengthening  afternoons,  able  to  reach  home 
somewhat  earlier,  he  noticed  that  the  little  drawing-room 
was  always  full  and  that  he  and  his  wife  seldom  had  an 
evening  alone  together.  When  he  was  tired,  as  often  hap 
pened,  she  went  out  alone;  the  idea  of  giving  up  an  en 
gagement  to  remain  with  him  seemed  not  to  occur  to  her. 
She  had  shown,  as  a  girl,  little  fondness  for  society,  nor 
had  she  seemed  to  regret  it  during  the  year  they  had 
spent  in  the  country.  He  reflected,  however,  that  he  was 
sharing  the  common  lot  of  husbands,  who  proverbially 
mistake  the  early  ardors  of  housekeeping  for  a  sign  of  set 
tled  domesticity.  Alexa,  at  any  rate,  was  refuting  his 
theory  as  inconsiderately  as  a  seedling  defeats  the  garden 
er's  expectations.  An  undefinable  change  had  come  over 
her.  In  one  sense  it  was  a  happy  one,  since  she  had  grown, 
if  not  handsomer,  at  least  more  vivid  and  expressive;  her 
beauty  had  become  more  communicable :  it  was  as  though 
she  had  learned  the  conscious  exercise  of  intuitive  attri 
butes  and  now  used  her  effects  with  the  discrimination 
of  an  artist  skilled  in  values.  To  a  dispassionate  critic  (as 
Glennard  now  rated  himself)  the  art  may  at  times  have 
been  a  little  too  obvious.  Her  attempts  at  lightness  lacked 
spontaneity,  and  she  sometimes  rasped  him  by  laugh 
ing  like  Julia  Armiger;  but  he  had  enough  imagination  to 
[  337  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

perceive  that,  in  respect  of  his  wife's  social  arts,  a  hus 
band  necessarily  sees  the  wrong  side  of  the  tapestry. 

In  this  ironical  estimate  of  their  relation  Glennard  found 
himself  strangely  relieved  of  all  concern  as  to  his  wife's 
feelings  for  Flamel.  From  an  Olympian  pinnacle  of  indif 
ference  he  calmly  surveyed  their  inoffensive  antics.  It  was 
surprising  how  his  cheapening  of  his  wife  put  him  at  ease 
with  himself.  Far  as  he  and  she  were  from  each  other  they 
had  yet  had,  in  a  sense,  the  tacit  nearness  of  complicity. 
Yes,  they  were  accomplices;  he  could  no  more  be  jealous  of 
her  than  she  could  despise  him.  The  jealousy  that  would 
once  have  seemed  a  blur  on  her  whiteness  now  appeared 
like  a  tribute  to  ideals  in  which  he  no  longer  believed. 

Glennard  was  little  given  to  exploring  the  outskirts  of 
literature.  He  always  skipped  the  "literary  notices"  in  the 
papers,  and  he  had  small  leisure  for  the  intermittent 
pleasures  of  the  periodical.  He  had  therefore  no  notion  of 
the  prolonged  reverberations  which  the  Aubyn  Letters  had 
awakened.  When  the  book  ceased  to  be  talked  about  he 
supposed  it  had  ceased  to  be  read;  and  this  apparent  sub 
sidence  of  the  agitation  about  it  brought  the  reassuring 
sense  that  he  had  exaggerated  its  vitality.  The  conviction, 
if  it  did  not  ease  his  conscience,  at  least  offered  him  the 
relative  relief  of  obscurity;  he  felt  like  an  offender  taken 
down  from  the  pillory  and  thrust  into  the  soothing  dark 
ness  of  a  cell. 

But  one  evening,  when  Alexa  had  left  him  to  go  to  a 
[338] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

dance,  he  chanced  to  turn  over  the  magazines  on  her 
table,  and  the  copy  of  the  Horoscope  to  which  he  settled 
down  with  his  cigar  confronted  him,  on  its  first  page,  with 
a  portrait  of  Margaret  Aubyn.  It  was  a  reproduction  of  the 
photograph  that  had  stood  so  long  on  his  desk.  The  desic 
cating  air  of  memory  had  turned  her  into  the  mere  abstrac 
tion  of  a  woman,  and  this  unexpected  evocation  seemed  to 
bring  her  nearer  than  she  had  ever  been  in  life.  Was  it 
because  he  understood  her  better  ?  He  looked  long  into  her 
eyes;  little  personal  traits  reached  out  to  him  like  caresses 
— the  tired  droop  of  her  lids,  her  quick  way  of  leaning 
forward  as  she  spoke,  the  movements  of  her  long  expressive 
hands.  All  that  was  feminine  in  her,  the  quality  he  had 
always  missed,  stole  toward  him  from  her  unreproachful 
gaze;  and  now  that  it  was  too  late,  life  had  developed  in 
him  the  subtler  perceptions  which  could  detect  it  in  even 
this  poor  semblance  of  herself.  For  a  moment  he  found  con 
solation  in  the  thought  that,  at  any  cost,  they  had  thus 
been  brought  together;  then  a  sense  of  shame  rushed  over 
him.  Face  to  face  with  her,  he  felt  himself  laid  bare  to  the 
inmost  fold  of  consciousness.  The  shame  was  deep,  but  it 
was  a  renovating  anguish:  he  was  like  a  man  whom  intol 
erable  pain  has  roused  from  the  creeping  lethargy  of 
death.  .  .  . 

He  rose  next  morning  to  as  fresh  a  sense  of  life  as  though 

his  hour  of  communion  with  Margaret  Aubyn  had  been  a 

more   exquisite   renewal   of   their   earlier   meetings.   His 

waking  thought  was  that  he  must  see  her  again;  and  as 

f  3391 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

consciousness  affirmed  itself  he  felt  an  intense  fear  of  losing 
the  sense  of  her  nearness.  But  she  was  still  close  to  him: 
her  presence  remained  the  one  reality  in  a  world  of  shad 
ows.  All  through  his  working  hours  he  was  re-living  with 
incredible  minuteness  every  incident  of  their  obliterated 
past:  as  a  man  who  has  mastered  the  spirit  of  a  foreign 
tongue  turns  with  renewed  wonder  to  the  pages  his  youth 
has  plodded  over.  In  this  lucidity  of  retrospection  the  most 
trivial  detail  had  its  meaning,  and  the  joy  of  recovery  was 
embittered  to  Glennard  by  the  perception  of  all  that  he 
had  missed.  He  had  been  pitiably,  grotesquely  stupid;  and 
there  was  irony  in  the  thought  that,  but  for  the  crisis 
through  which  he  was  passing,  he  might  have  lived  on  in 
complacent  ignorance  of  his  loss.  It  was  as  though  she  had 
bought  him  with  her  blood.  .  .  . 

That  evening  he  and  Alexa  dined  alone.  After  dinner  he 
followed  her  to  the  drawing-room.  He  no  longer  felt  the 
need  of  avoiding  her;  he  was  hardly  conscious  of  her  pres 
ence.  After  a  few  words  they  lapsed  into  silence,  and  he 
sat  smoking  with  his  eyes  on  the  fire.  It  was  not  that  he 
was  unwilling  to  talk  to  her;  he  felt  a  curious  desire  to  be 
as  kind  as  possible;  but  he  was  always  forgetting  that  she 
was  there.  Her  full  bright  presence,  through  which  the  cur 
rents  of  life  flowed  so  warmly,  had  grown  as  tenuous  as  a 
shadow,  and  he  saw  so  far  beyond  her. 

Presently  she  rose  and  began  to  move  about  the  room. 
[  340  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

She  seemed  to  be  looking  for  something,  and  he  roused 
himself  to  ask  what  she  wanted. 

"Only  the  last  number  of  the  Horoscope.  I  thought  I  'd 
left  it  on  this  table."  He  said  nothing,  and  she  went  on: 
"You  have  n't  seen  it?" 

"No,"  he  returned  coldly.  The  magazine  was  locked  in 
his  desk. 

His  wife  had  moved  to  the  mantelpiece.  She  stood  facing 
him,  and  as  he  looked  up  he  met  her  tentative  gaze.  "I 
was  reading  an  article  in  it — a  review  of  Mrs.  Aubyn's 
Letters,"  she  added  slowly,  with  her  deep  deliberate  blush. 

Glennard  stooped  to  toss  his  cigar  into  the  fire.  He  felt  a 
savage  wish  that  she  would  not  speak  the  other  woman's 
name;  nothing  else  seemed  to  matter. 

"You  seem  to  do  a  lot  of  reading,"  he  said. 

She  still  confronted  him.  "I  was  keeping  this  for  you — 
I  thought  it  might  interest  you,"  she  said  with  an  air  of 
gentle  insistence. 

He  stood  up  and  turned  away.  He  was  sure  she  knew 
that  he  had  taken  the  review,  and  he  felt  that  he  was 
beginning  to  hate  her  again. 

"I  have  n't  time  for  such  things,"  he  said  indifferently. 
As  he  moved  to  the  door  he  heard  her  take  a  hurried  step 
forward;  then  she  paused,  and  sank  without  speaking  into 
the  chair  from  which  he  had  Arisen. 


341  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 


XI 


AS  Glennard,  in  the  raw  February  sunlight,  mounted 
the  road  to  the  cemetery,  he  felt  the  beatitude  that 
comes  with  an  abrupt  cessation  of  physical  pain.  He  had 
reached  the  point  where  self-analysis  ceases;  the  impulse 
that  moved  him  was  purely  intuitive.  He  did  not  even  seek 
a  reason  for  it,  beyond  the  obvious  one  that  his  desire  to 
stand  by  Margaret  Aubyn's  grave  was  prompted  by  no 
attempt  at  a  sentimental  reparation,  but  rather  by  the  need 
to  affirm  in  some  way  the  reality  of  the  tie  between  them. 

The  ironical  promiscuity  of  death  had  brought  Mrs. 
Aubyn  back  to  share  the  hospitality  of  her  husband's  last 
lodging;  but  though  Glennard  knew  she  had  been  buried 
near  New  York  he  had  never  visited  her  grave.  He  was 
oppressed,  as  he  now  threaded  the  long  avenues,  by  a 
chilling  vision  of  her  return.  There  was  no  family  to  follow 
her  hearse;  she  had  died  alone,  as  she  had  lived;  and  the 
"distinguished  mourners"  who  had  formed  the  escort  of 
the  famous  writer  knew  nothing  of  the  woman  they  were 
committing  to  the  grave.  Glennard  could  not  even  remem 
ber  at  what  season  she  had  been  buried;  but  his  mood  in 
dulged  the  fancy  that  it  must  have  been  on  some  such  day 
of  harsh  sunlight,  the  incisive  February  brightness  that 
gives  perspicuity  without  warmth.  The  white  avenues 
stretched  before  him  interminably,  lined  with  stereotyped 
[  342  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

emblems  of  affliction,  as  though  all  the  platitudes  ever 
uttered  had  been  turned  to  marble  and  set  up  over  the 
unresisting  dead.  Here  and  there,  no  doubt,  a  frigid  urn  or 
an  insipid  angel  imprisoned  some  fine-fibred  grief,  as  the 
most  hackneyed  words  may  become  the  vehicle  of  rare 
meanings;  but  for  the  most  part  the  endless  alignment  of 
monuments  seemed  to  embody  those  easy  generalizations 
about  death  that  do  not  disturb  the  repose  of  the  living. 
Glennard's  eye,  as  he  followed  the  way  pointed  out  to 
him,  had  instinctively  sought  some  low  mound  with  a  quiet 
headstone.  He  had  forgotten  that  the  dead  seldom  plan 
their  own  houses,  and  with  a  pang  he  discovered  the  name 
he  sought  on  the  cyclopean  base  of  a  shaft  rearing  its 
aggressive  height  at  the  angle  of  two  avenues. 

"How  she  would  have  hated  it !"  he  murmured. 

A  bench  stood  near  and  he  seated  himself.  The  monu 
ment  rose  before  him  like  some  pretentious  uninhabited 
dwelling:  he  could  not  believe  that  Margaret  Aubyn  lay 
there.  It  was  a  Sunday  morning,  and  black  figures  moved 
among  the  paths,  placing  flowers  on  the  frost-bound  hill 
ocks.  Glennard  noticed  that  the  neighboring  graves  had 
been  thus  newly  dressed,  and  he  fancied  a  blind  stir  of 
expectancy  through  the  sod,  as  though  the  bare  mounds 
spread  a  parched  surface  to  that  commemorative  rain.  He 
rose  presently  and  walked  back  to  the  entrance  of  the 
cemetery.  Several  greenhouses  stood  near  the  gates,  and 
turning  in  at  the  first  he  asked  for  some  flowers. 
[343] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"Anything  in  the  emblematic  line?"  asked  the  anaemic 
man  behind  the  dripping  counter. 

Glennard  shook  his  head. 

"Just  cut  flowers  ?  This  way  then."  The  florist  unlocked 
a  glass  door  and  led  him  down  a  moist  green  aisle.  The  hot 
air  was  choked  with  the  scent  of  white  azaleas,  white  lilies, 
white  lilacs;  all  the  flowers  were  white:  they  were  like  a 
prolongation,  a  mystic  efflorescence,  of  the  long  rows  of 
marble  tombstones,  and  their  perfume  seemed  to  cover  an 
odor  of  decay.  The  rich  atmosphere  made  Glennard  dizzy. 
As  he  leaned  in  the  doorway,  waiting  for  the  flowers,  he 
had  a  penetrating  sense  of  Margaret  Aubyn's  nearness — 
not  the  imponderable  presence  of  his  inner  vision,  but  a  life 
that  beat  warm  in  his  arms.  .  .  . 

The  sharp  air  caught  him  as  he  stepped  out  into  it  again. 
He  walked  back  and  scattered  the  flowers  over  the  grave. 
The  edges  of  the  white  petals  shrivelled  like  burnt  paper 
in  the  cold;  and  as  he  watched  them  the  illusion  of  her 
nearness  faded,  shrank  back  frozen. 


xn 


/TTAHE  motive  of  his  visit  to  the  cemetery  remained  unde 
fined  save  as  a  final  effort  of  escape  from  his  wife's 
inexpressive  acceptance  of  his  shame.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  as  long  as  he  could  keep  himself  alive  to  that  shame 
he  would  not  wholly  have  succumbed  to  its  consequences. 
[344] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

His  chief  fear  was  that  he  should  become  the  creature  of 
his  act.  His  wife's  indifference  degraded  him:  it  seemed  to 
put  him  on  a  level  with  his  dishonor.  Margaret  Aubyn 
would  have  abhorred  the  deed  in  proportion  to  her  pity 
for  the  man.  The  sense  of  her  potential  pity  drew  him  back 
to  her.  The  one  woman  knew  but  did  not  understand;  the 
Other,  it  sometimes  seemed,  understood  without  knowing. 

In  its  last  disguise  of  retrospective  remorse,  his  self-pity 
affected  a  desire  for  solitude  and  meditation.  He  lost  him 
self  in  morbid  musings,  in  futile  visions  of  what  life  with 
Margaret  Aubyn  might  have  been.  There  were  moments 
when,  in  the  strange  dislocation  of  his  view,  the  wrong  he 
had  done  her  seemed  a  tie  between  them. 

"To  indulge  these  emotions  he  fell  into  the  habit,  on 
Sunday  afternoons,  of  solitary  walks  prolonged  till  after 
dusk.  The  days  were  lengthening,  there  was  a  touch  of 
spring  in  the  air,  and  his  wanderings  now  usually  led  him 
to  the  Park  and  its  outlying  regions. 

One  Sunday,  tired  of  aimless  locomotion,  he  took  a  cab 
at  the  Park  gates  and  let  it  carry  him  out  to  the  Riverside 
Drive.  It  was  a  gray  afternoon  streaked  with  east  wind. 
Glennard's  cab  advanced  slowly,  and  as  he  leaned  back, 
gazing  with  absent  intentness  at  the  deserted  paths  that 
wound  under  bare  boughs  between  grass  banks  of  prema 
ture  vividness,  his  attention  was  arrested  by  two  figures 
walking  ahead  of  him.  This  couple,  who  had  the  path  to 
themselves,  moved  at  an  uneven  pace,  as  though  adapting 
[  345  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

their  gait  to  a  conversation  marked  by  meditative  inter 
vals.  Now  and  then  they  paused,  and  in  one  of  these 
pauses  the  lady,  turning  toward  her  companion,  showed 
Glennard  the  outline  of  his  wife's  profile.  The  man  was 
Flamel. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Glennard's  forehead.  He  sat  up 
with  a  jerk  and  pushed  back  the  lid  in  the  roof  of  the 
hansom;  but  when  the  cabman  bent  down  he  dropped  into 
his  seat  without  speaking.  Then,  becoming  conscious  of 
the  prolonged  interrogation  of  the  lifted  lid,  he  called  out 
— "Turn — drive  back — anywhere — I  'm  in  a  hurry — " 

As  the  cab  swung  round  he  caught  a  last  glimpse  of  the 
two  figures.  They  had  not  moved;  Alexa,  with  bent  head, 
stood  listening. 

"My  God,  my  God — "  he  groaned. 

It  was  hideous — it  was  abominable — he  could  not  under 
stand  it.  The  woman  was  nothing  to  him — less  than  noth 
ing — yet  the  blood  hummed  in  his  ears  and  hung  a  cloud 
before  him.  He  knew  it  was  only  the  stirring  of  the  primal 
instinct,  that  it  had  no  more  to  do  with  his  reasoning  self 
than  any  reflex  impulse  of  the  body;  but  that  merely  low 
ered  anguish  to  disgust.  Yes,  it  was  disgust  he  felt — almost 
a  physical  nausea.  The  poisonous  fumes  of  life  were  in  his 
lungs.  He  was  sick,  unutterably  sick.  .  .  . 

He  drove  home  and  went  to  his  room.  They  were  giving 
a  little  dinner  that  night,  and  when  he  came  down  the 
guests  were  arriving.  He  looked  at  his  wife:  her  beauty 
[346] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

was  extraordinary,  but  it  seemed  to  him  the  beauty  of  a 
smooth  sea  along  an  unlit  coast.  She  frightened  him. 

He  sat  late  in  his  study.  He  heard  the  parlormaid  lock 
the  front  door;  then  his  wife  went  upstairs  and  the  lights 
were  put  out.  His  brain  was  like  some  great  empty  hall 
with  an  echo  in  it:  one  thought  reverberated  endlessly. 
...  At  length  he  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  and  began  to 
write.  He  addressed  an  envelope  and  then  slowly  re-read 
what  he  had  written. 

"My  dear  Flamel, 

"  Many  apologies  for  not  sending  you  sooner  the  enclosed 
"check,  which  represents  the  customary  percentage  on  the 
"sale  of  the 'Letters: 

"  Trusting  you  will  excuse  the  oversight, 
"  Yours  truly 

"Stephen  Glennard." 

He  let  himself  out  of  the  darkened  house  and  dropped 
the  letter  in  the  post-box  at  the  corner. 

The  next  afternoon  he  was  detained  late  at  his  office, 
and  as  he  was  preparing  to  leave  he  heard  some  one  asking 
for  him  in  the  outer  room.  He  seated  himself  again  and 
Flamel  was  shown  in. 

The  two  men,  as  Glennard  pushed  aside  an  obstructive 
[3471 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

chair,  had  a  moment  to  measure  each  other;  then  Flamel 
advanced,  and  drawing  out  his  note-case,  laid  a  slip  of 
paper  on  the  desk. 

"My  dear  fellow,  what  on  earth  does  this  mean?" 

Glennard  recognized  his  check. 

"That  I  was  remiss,  simply.  It  ought  to  have  gone  to 
you  before." 

Flamel's  tone  had  been  that  of  unaffected  surprise,  but 
at  this  his  accent  changed  and  he  asked  quickly:  "On  what 
ground?" 

Glennard  had  moved  away  from  the  desk  and  stood 
leaning  against  the  calf-backed  volumes  of  the  bookcase. 
"On  the  ground  that  you  sold  Mrs.  Aubyn's  letters  for  me, 
and  that  I  find  the  intermediary  in  such  cases  is  entitled 
to  a  percentage  on  the  sale." 

Flamel  paused  before  answering.  "You  find,  you  say. 
It 's  a  recent  discovery?" 

"Obviously,  from  my  not  sending  the  check  sooner. 
You  see  I  'm  new  to  the  business." 

"And  since  when  have  you  discovered  that  there  was 
any  question  of  business,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned?" 

Glennard  flushed  and  his  voice  rose  slightly.  "Are  you 
reproaching  me  for  not  having  remembered  it  sooner?" 

Flamel,  who  had  spoken  in  the  rapid  repressed  tone  of  a 
man  on  the  verge  of  anger,  stared  a  moment  at  this  and 
then,    in    his    natural    voice,    rejoined    good-humoredly, 
"Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  understand  you  !" 
[348] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

The  change  of  key  seemed  to  disconcert  Glennard.  "It 's 
simple  enough,"  he  muttered. 

"Simple  enough — your  offering  me  money  in  return  for 
a  friendly  service  ?  I  don't  know  what  your  other  friends 
expect!" 

"Some  of  my  friends  wouldn't  have  undertaken  the 
job.  Those  who  would  have  done  so  would  probably  have 
expected  to  be  paid." 

He  lifted  his  eyes  to  Flamel  and  the  two  men  looked  at 
each  other.  Flamel  had  turned  white  and  his  lips  stirred, 
but  he  held  his  temperate  note.  "If  you  mean  to  imply 
that  the  job  was  not  a  nice  one  you  lay  yourself  open  to 
the  retort  that  you  proposed  it.  But  for  my  part  I  've  never 
seen,  I  never  shall  see,  any  reason  for  not  publishing  the 
letters." 

"That's  just  it!" 

"What-?" 

"The  certainty  of  your  not  seeing  was  what  made  me 
go  to  you.  When  a  man's  got  stolen  goods  to  pawn  he 
does  n't  take  them  to  the  police-station." 

"Stolen?"  Flamel  echoed.  "The  letters  were  stolen?" 

Glennard  burst  into  a  laugh.  "How  much  longer  do  you 
expect  me  to  keep  up  that  pretence  about  the  letters? 
You  know  well  enough  they  were  written  to  me." 

Flamel  looked  at  him  in  silence.  "Were  they?"  he  said 
at  length.  "I  did  n't  know  it." 

"And  did  n't  suspect  it,  I  suppose,"  Glennard  sneered. 
[  349  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

The  other  Was  again  silent;  then  he  said,  "I  may  re 
mind  you  that,  supposing  I  had  felt  any  curiosity  about 
the  matter,  I  had  no  way  of  finding  out  that  the  letters 
were  written  to  you.  You  never  showed  me  the  originals." 

"What  does  that  prove  ?  There  were  fifty  ways  of  finding 
out.  It 's  the  kind  of  thing  one  can  easily  do." 

Flamel  glanced  at  him  with  contempt.  "Our  ideas  prob 
ably  differ  as  to  what  a  man  can  easily  do.  It  would  not 
have  been  easy  for  me." 

Glennard's  anger  vented  itself  in  the  words  uppermost 
in  his  thought.  "It  may,  then,  interest  you  to  hear  that 
my  wife  does  know  about  the  letters — has  known  for  some 
months.  .  .  ." 

"Ah,"  said  the  other,  slowly. 

Glennard  saw  that,  in  his  blind  clutch  at  a  weapon,  he 
had  seized  the  one  most  apt  to  wound.  Flamel's  muscles 
were  under  control,  but  his  face  showed  the  undefinable 
change  produced  by  the  slow  infiltration  of  poison.  Every 
implication  that  the  words  contained  had  reached  its  mark; 
but  Glennard  felt  that  their  obvious  intent  was  lost  in  the 
anguish  of  what  they  suggested.  He  was  sure  now  that 
Flamel  would  never  have  betrayed  him;  but  the  inference 
only  made  a  wider  outlet  for  his  anger.  He  paused  breath 
lessly  for  Flamel  to  speak. 

"If  she  knows  it 's  not  through  me."  It  was  what  Glen 
nard  had  waited  for. 

"Through  you,  by  God?  Who  said  it  was  through  you? 
[  350  1 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Do  you  suppose  I  leave  it  to  you,  or  to  anybody  else,  for 
that  matter,  to  keep  my  wife  informed  of  my  actions?  I 
did  n't  suppose  even  such  egregious  conceit  as  yours  could 
delude  a  man  to  that  degree!"  Struggling  for  a  foothold 
in  the  landslide  of  his  dignity,  he  added  in  a  steadier  tone, 
"My  wife  learned  the  facts  from  me." 

Flamel  received  this  in  silence.  The  other's  outbreak 
seemed  to  have  restored  his  self-control,  and  when  he 
spoke  it  was  with  a  deliberation  implying  that  his  course 
was  chosen.  "In  that  case  I  understand  still  less — " 

"  Stillless—?" 

"The  meaning  of  this."  He  pointed  to  the  check.  "When 
you  began  to  speak  I  supposed  you  had  meant  it  as  a 
bribe;  now  I  can  only  infer  it  was  intended  as  a  random 
insult.  In  either  case,  here  's  my  answer." 

He  tore  the  slip  of  paper  in  two  and  tossed  the  fragments 
across  the  desk  to  Glennard.  Then  he  turned  and  walked 
out  of  the  office. 

Glennard  dropped  his  head  on  his  hands.  If  he  had  hoped 
to  restore  his  self-respect  by  the  simple  expedient  of  assail 
ing  Flamel's,  the  result  had  not  justified  his  expectation. 
The  blow  he  had  struck  had  blunted  the  edge  of  his  anger, 
and  the  unforeseen  extent  of  the  hurt  inflicted  did  not  alter 
the  fact  that  his  weapon  had  broken  in  his  hands.  He  now 
saw  that  his  rage  against  Flamel  was  only  the  last  pro 
jection  of  a  passionate  self-disgust.  This  consciousness  did 
not  dull  his  dislike  of  the  man;  it  simply  made  reprisals 
[3511 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

ineffectual.  Flamel's  unwillingness  to  quarrel  with  him  was 
the  last  stage  of  his  abasement. 

In  the  light  of  this  final  humiliation  his  assumption  of 
his  wife's  indifference  struck  him  as  hardly  so  fatuous  as 
the  sentimental  resuscitation  of  his  past.  He  had  been  living 
in  a  factitious  world  wherein  his  emotions  were  the  syco 
phants  of  his  vanity,  and  it  was  with  instinctive  relief  that 
he  felt  its  ruins  crash  about  his  head. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  he  left  his  office,  and  he  walked 
slowly  homeward  in  the  complete  mental  abeyance  that 
follows  on  such  a  crisis.  He  was  not  aware  that  he  was 
thinking  of  his  wife;  yet  when  he  reached  his  own  door  he 
found  that,  in  the  involuntary  readjustment  of  his  vision, 
she  had  once  more  become  the  central  point  of  con 
sciousness. 

xin 

ITT  had  never  before  occurred  to  him  that  she  might, 
after  all,  have  missed  the  purport  of  the  document  he 
had  put  in  her  way.  What  if,  in  her  hurried  inspection  of 
the  papers,  she  had  passed  it  over  as  related  to  the  private 
business  of  some  client  ?  What,  for  instance,  was  to  prevent 
her  concluding  that  Glennard  was  the  counsel  of  the  un 
known  person  who  had  sold  the  Aubyn  Letters?  The  sub 
ject  was  one  not  likely  to  fix  her  attention — she  was  not  a 
curious  woman. 

f  3521 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Glennard  at  this  point  laid  down  his  fork  and  glanced  at 
her  between  the  candle-shades.  The  alternative  explana 
tion  of  her  indifference  was  not  slow  in  presenting  itself. 
Her  head  had  the  same  listening  droop  as  when  he  had 
caught  sight  of  her  the  day  before  in  FlameFs  company; 
the  attitude  revived  the  vividness  of  his  impression.  It 
was  simple  enough,  after  all.  She  had  ceased  to  care  for  him 
because  she  cared  for  some  one  else. 

As  he  followed  her  upstairs  he  felt  a  sudden  stirring  of 
his  dormant  anger.  His  sentiments  had  lost  their  artificial 
complexity.  He  had  already  acquitted  her  of  any  conni 
vance  in  his  baseness,  and  he  felt  only  that  he  loved  her 
and  that  she  had  escaped  him.  This  was  now,  strangely 
enough,  his  dominant  thought:  the  sense  that  he  and  she 
had  passed  through  the  fusion  of  love  and  had  emerged 
from  it  as  incommunicably  apart  as  though  the  transmu 
tation  had  never  taken  place.  Every  other  passion,  he 
mused,  left  some  mark  upon  the  nature;  but  love  passed 
like  the  flight  of  a  ship  across  the  waters. 

She  dropped  into  her  usual  seat  near  the  lamp,  and  he 
leaned  against  the  chimney,  moving  about  with  an  inat 
tentive  hand  the  knick-knacks  on  the  mantel. 

Suddenly  he  caught  sight  of  her  reflection  in  the  mirror. 
She  was  looking  at  him.  He  turned  and  their  eyes  met. 

He  moved  across  the  room. 

"There  's  something  that  I  want  to  say  to  you,"  he 
began. 

[353] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

She  held  his  gaze,  but  her  color  deepened.  He  noticed 
again,  with  a  jealous  pang,  how  her  beauty  had  gained  in 
warmth  and  meaning.  It  was  as  though  a  transparent  cup 
had  been  filled  with  wine.  He  looked  at  her  ironically. 

"I  've  never  prevented  your  seeing  your  friends  here," 
he  broke  out.  "  Why  do  you  meet  Flamel  in  out-of-the-way 
places  ?  Nothing  makes  a  woman  so  cheap — " 

She  rose  abruptly  and  they  faced  each  other  a  few  feet 
apart. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

"I  saw  you  with  him  last  Sunday  on  the  Riverside 
Drive,"  he  went  on,  the  utterance  of  the  charge  reviving 
his  anger. 

"Ah,"  she  murmured.  She  sank  into  her  chair  again  and 
began  to  play  with  a  paper-knife  that  lay  on  the  table  at 
her  elbow. 

Her  silence  exasperated  him. 

"Well?"  he  burst  out.  "Is  that  all  you  have  to  say?" 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  explain?"  she  asked  proudly. 

"Do  you  imply  I  have  n't  the  right  to?" 

"I  imply  nothing.  I  will  tell  you  whatever  you  wish  to 
know.  I  went  for  a  walk  with  Mr.  Flamel  because  he  asked 
me  to." 

"I  did  n't  suppose  you  went  uninvited.  But  there  are 
certain  things  a  sensible  woman  does  n't  do.  She  does  n't 
slink  about  in  out-of-the-way  streets  with  men.   Why 
could  n't  you  have  seen  him  here?" 
[354] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

She  hesitated.  "Because  he  wanted  to  see  me  alone.'* 

"Did  he  indeed?  And  may  I  ask  if  you  gratify  all  his 
wishes  with  equal  alacrity?" 

"I  don't  know  that  he  has  any  others  where  I  am  con 
cerned."  She  paused  again  and  then  continued,  in  a  voice 
that  somehow  had  an  under-note  of  warning,  "He  wished 
to  bid  me  good-bye.  He  's  going  away." 

Glennard  turned  on  her  a  startled  glance.  "Going 
away?" 

"He  's  going  to  Europe  to-morrow.  He  goes  for  a  long 
time.  I  supposed  you  knew." 

The  last  phrase  revived  his  irritation.  "You  forget  that 
I  depend  on  you  for  my  information  about  Flamel.  He  's 
your  friend  and  not  mine.  In  fact,  I've  sometimes  won 
dered  at  your  going  out  of  your  way  to  be  so  civil  to  him 
when  you  must  see  plainly  enough  that  I  don't  like  him." 

Her  answer  to  this  was  not  immediate.  She  seemed  to  be 
choosing  her  words  with  care,  not  so  much  for  her  own 
sake  as  for  his,  and  his  exasperation  was  increased  by  the 
suspicion  that  she  was  trying  to  spare  him. 

"He  was  your  friend  before  he  was  mine.  I  never  knew 
him  till  I  was  married.  It  was  you  who  brought  him  to  the 
house  and  who  seemed  to  wish  me  to  like  him." 

Glennard  gave  a  short  laugh.  The  defence  was  feebler 
than  he  had  expected:  she  was  certainly  not  a  clever 
woman. 

"Your  deference  to  my  wishes  is  really  beautiful;  but 
[  3551 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

it 's  not  the  first  time  in  history  that  a  man  had  made  a 
mistake  in  introducing  his  friends  to  his  wife.  You  must,  at 
any  rate,  have  seen  since  then  that  my  enthusiasm  had 
cooled;  but  so,  perhaps,  has  your  eagerness  to  oblige  me." 

She  met  this  with  a  silence  that  seemed  to  rob  the  taunt 
of  half  its  efficacy. 

"Is  that  what  you  imply?"  he  pressed  her. 

"No,"  she  answered  with  sudden  directness.  "I  noticed 
some  time  ago  that  you  seemed  to  dislike  him,  but  since 
then—" 

"Well— since  then?" 

"I  've  imagined  that  you  had  reasons  for  still  wishing 
me  to  be  civil  to  him,  as  you  call  it." 

"Ah,"  said  Glennard  with  an  effort  at  lightness;  but 
his  irony  dropped,  for  something  in  her  voice  made  him 
feel  that  he  and  she  stood  at  last  in  that  naked  desert  of 
apprehension  where  meaning  skulks  vainly  behind  speech. 

"And  why  did  you  imagine  this?"  The  blood  mounted 
to  his  forehead.  "Because  he  told  you  that  I  was  under 
obligations  to  him?" 

She  turned  pale.  "Under  obligations?" 

"Oh,  don't  let's  beat  about  the  bush.  Didn't  he  tell 
you  it  was  I  who  published  Mrs.  Aubyn's  letters  ?  Answer 
me  that." 

"No,"  she  said;  and  after  a  moment  which  seemed 
given  to  the  weighing  of  alternatives,  she  added:  "No  one 
told  me." 

f  3561 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"You  did  n't  know,  then?'* 

She  seemed  to  speak  with  an  effort.  "Not  until — not 
until—" 

"Till  I  gave  you  those  papers  to  sort?'* 

Her  head  sank. 

"You  understood  then?" 

"Yes." 

He  looked  at  her  immovable  face.  "Had  you  suspected 
— before  ?  "  was  slowly  wrung  from  him. 

"At  times — yes — ."  Her  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper. 

"Why?  From  anything  that  was  said — ?" 

There  was  a  shade  of  pity  in  her  glance.  "No  one  said 
anything — no  one  told  me  anything."  She  looked  away 
from  him.  "It  was  your  manner — " 

"My  manner?" 

"Whenever  the  book  was  mentioned.  Things  you  said — 
once  or  twice — your  irritation — I  can't  explain." 

Glennard,  unconsciously,  had  moved  nearer.  He 
breathed  like  a  man  who  has  been  running.  "You  knew, 
then,  you  knew — "  he  stammered.  The  avowal  of  her  love 
for  Flamel  would  have  hurt  him  less,  would  have  rendered 
her  less  remote.  "You  knew — you  knew — "  he  repeated; 
and  suddenly  his  anguish  gathered  voice.  "My  God !"  he 
cried,  "you  suspected  it  first,  you  say — and  then  you 
knew  it — this  damnable,  this  accursed  thing;  you  knew  it 
months  ago — it 's  months  since  I  put  that  paper  in  your 
way — and  yet  you  've  done  nothing,  you  've  said  nothing, 
[  3571 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

you  *ve  made  no  sign,  you  Ve  lived  alongside  of  me  as  if 
it  had  made  no  difference — no  difference  in  either  of  our 
lives.  What  are  you  made  of,  I  wonder  ?  Don't  you  see  the 
hideous  ignominy  of  it  ?  Don't  you  see  how  you  've  shared 
in  my  disgrace?  Or  have  n't  you  any  sense  of  shame?" 

He  preserved  sufficient  lucidity,  as  the  words  poured 
from  him,  to  see  how  fatally  they  invited  her  derision;  but 
something  told  him  they  had  both  passed  beyond  the 
phase  of  obvious  retaliations,  and  that  if  any  chord  in 
her  responded  it  would  not  be  that  of  scorn. 

He  was  right.  She  rose  slowly  and  moved  toward  him. 

"Haven't  you  had  enough — without  that?"  she  said 
in  a  strange  voice  of  pity. 

He  stared  at  her.  "Enough—?" 

"Of  misery.  .  ." 

An  iron  band  seemed  loosened  from  his  temples.  "You 
saw  then  .  .  ? "  he  whispered. 

"Oh,  God — oh,  God — "  she  sobbed.  She  dropped  beside 
him  and  hid  her  anguish  against  his  knees.  They  clung 
thus  in  silence  a  long  time,  driven  together  down  the  same 
fierce  blast  of  shame. 

When  at  length  she  lifted  her  face  he  averted  his.  Her 
scorn  would  have  hurt  him  less  than  the  tears  on  his  hands. 

She  spoke  languidly,  like  a  child  emerging  from  a  passion 
of  weeping.  "It  was  for  the  money — ?" 

His  lips  shaped  an  assent. 

"That  was  the  inheritance — that  we  married  on?" 
[358] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"Yes." 

She  drew  back  and  rose  to  her  feet.  He  sat  watching  her 
as  she  wandered  away  from  him. 

"You  hate  me,"  broke  from  him. 

She  made  no  answer. 

"Say  you  hate  me !"  he  persisted. 

"That  would  have  been  so  simple,"  she  answered  with 
a  strange  smile.  She  dropped  into  a  chair  near  the  writing- 
table  and  rested  a  bowed  forehead  on  her  hand. 

"Was  it  much — ?"  she  began  at  length. 

"Much — ?"  he  returned  vaguely. 

"The  money." 

"The  money?"  That  part  of  it  seemed  to  count  so  little 
that  for  a  moment  he  did  not  follow  her  thought. 

"It  must  be  paid  back,"  she  insisted.  "Can  you  do 
it?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  returned  listlessly.  "I  can  do  it." 

"I  would  make  any  sacrifice  for  that !"  she  urged. 

He  nodded.  "Of  course."  He  sat  staring  at  her  in  dry- 
eyed  self-contempt.  "Do  you  count  on  its  making  much 
difference?" 

"  Much  difference  ?  " 

"In  the  way  I  feel — or  you  feel  about  me?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It 's  the  least  part  of  it,"  he  groaned. 

"It 's  the  only  part  we  can  repair." 

"Good  heavens!  If  there  were  any  reparation — "  He 
[  3591 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

rose  quickly  and  crossed  the  space  that  divided  them. 
"Why  did  you  never  speak?" 

"Have  n't  you  answered  that  yourself?" 
"Answered  it?" 

"Just  now — when  you  told  me  you  did  it  for  me." 
She  paused  a  moment  and  then  went  on  with  a  deepen 
ing  note — "I  would  have  spoken  if  I  could  have  helped 
you." 

"But  you  must  have  despised  me." 
"I  've  told  you  that  would  have  been  simpler." 
"But  how  could  you  go  on  like  this — hating  the  money  ?  " 
"I  knew  you  'd  speak  in  time.  I  wanted  you,  first,  to 
hate  it  as  I  did." 

He  gazed  at  her  with  a  kind  of  awe.  "You  're  wonder 
ful,"  he  murmured.  "But  you  don't  yet  know  the  depths 
I  Ve  reached." 

She  raised  an  entreating  hand.  "I  don't  want  to !" 
"You  're  afraid,  then,  that  you  '11  hate  me?" 
"No — but  that  you  '11  hate  me.  Let  me  understand  with 
out  your  telling  me." 

"You  can't.  It 's  too  base.  I  thought  you  did  n't  care 
because  you  loved  Flamel." 

She  blushed  deeply.  "Don't — don't — "  she  warned  him. 
"I  have  n't  the  right  to,  you  mean?" 
"I  mean  that  you  '11  be  sorry." 

He  stood  imploringly  before  her.  "I  want  to  say  some 
thing  worse — something  more  outrageous.  If  you  don't 
[  360  ] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

understand  this  you  '11  be  perfectly  justified  in  ordering 
me  out  of  the  house." 

She  answered  him  with  a  glance  of  divination.  "I  shall 
understand — but  you  '11  be  sorry." 

"I  must  take  my  chance  of  that."  He  moved  away  and 
tossed  the  books  about  the  table.  Then  he  swung  round 
and  faced  her.  "Does  Flamel  care  for  you?"  he  asked. 

Her  flush  deepened,  but  she  still  looked  at  him  without 
anger.  "What  would  be  the  use?"  she  said  with  a  note  of 
sadness. 

"Ah,  I  did  n't  ask  that"  he  penitently  murmured. 

"Well,  then—" 

To  this  adjuration  he  made  no  response  beyond  that  of 
gazing  at  her  with  an  eye  which  seemed  now  to  view  her 
as  a  mere  factor  in  an  immense  redistribution  of  meanings. 

"I  insulted  Flamel  to-day.  I  let  him  see  that  I  suspected 
him  of  having  told  you.  I  hated  him  because  he  knew 
about  the  letters." 

He  caught  the  spreading  horror  of  her  eyes,  and  for  an 
instant  he  had  to  grapple  with  the  new  temptation  they 
lit  up.  Then  he  said  with  an  effort — "Don't  blame  him — 
he  's  impeccable.  He  helped  me  to  get  them  published; 
but  I  lied  to  him  too;  I  pretended  they  were  written  to 
another  man  ...  a  man  who  was  dead.  .  ." 

She  raised  her  arms  in  a  gesture  that  seemed  to  ward  off 
his  blows. 

"You  do  despise  me  !"  he  insisted. 
[361] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

"Ah,  that  poor  woman — that  poor  woman — "  he  heard 
her  murmur. 

"I  spare  no  one,  you  see !"  he  triumphed  over  her.  She 
kept  her  face  hidden. 

"You  do  hate  me,  you  do  despise  me!"  he  strangely 
exulted. 

"Be  silent!"  she  commanded  him;  but  he  seemed  no 
longer  conscious  of  any  check  on  his  gathering  purpose. 

"He  cared  for  you — he  cared  for  you,"  he  repeated, 
"and  he  never  told  you  of  the  letters — " 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  "How  can  you?"  she  flamed. 
"How  dare  you?  That— I" 

Glennard  was  ashy  pale.  "It's  a  weapon  .  .  .  like 
another.  .  ." 

"A  scoundrel's!" 

He  smiled  wretchedly.  "I  should  have  used  it  in  his 
place." 

"Stephen  !  Stephen  !"  she  cried,  as  though  to  drown  the 
blasphemy  on  his  lips.  She  swept  to  him  with  a  rescuing 
gesture.  "Don't  say  such  things.  I  forbid  you !  It  degrades 
us  both." 

He  put  her  back  with  trembling  hands.  "Nothing  that 
I  say  of  myself  can  degrade  you.  We  're  on  different 
levels." 

"I  'm  on  yours,  wherever  it  is !" 

He  lifted  his  head  and  their  gaze  flowed  together. 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 


XIV 


'  I  ^HE  great  renewals  take  effect  as  imperceptibly  as 
the  first  workings  of  spring.  Glennard,  though  he 
felt  himself  brought  nearer  to  his  wife,  was  still,  as  it 
were,  hardly  within  speaking  distance.  He  was  but  labori 
ously  acquiring  the  rudiments  of  a  new  language;  and  he 
had  to  grope  for  her  through  the  dense  fog  of  his  humilia 
tion,  the  distorting  vapor  against  which  her  personality 
loomed  grotesque  and  mean. 

Only  the  fact  that  we  are  unaware  how  well  our  nearest 
know  us  enables  us  to  live  with  them.  Love  is  the  most 
impregnable  refuge  of  self-esteem,  and  we  hate  the  eye 
that  reaches  to  our  nakedness.  If  Glennard  did  not  hate 
his  wife  it  was  slowly,  sufferingly,  that  there  was  born  in 
him  that  profounder  passion  which  made  his  earlier  feeling 
seem  a  mere  commotion  of  the  blood.  He  was  like  a  child 
coming  back  to  the  sense  of  an  enveloping  presence:  her 
nearness  was  a  breast  on  which  he  leaned. 

They  did  not,  at  first,  talk  much  together,  and  each- 
beat  a  devious  track  about  the  outskirts  of  the  subject 
that  lay  between  them  like  a  haunted  wood.  But  every 
word,  every  action,  seemed  to  glance  at  it,  to  draw  toward 
it,  as  though  a  fount  of  healing  sprang  in  its  poisoned 
shade.  If  only  they  might  cut  a  way  through  the  thicket 
to  that  restoring  spring  ! 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

Glennard,  watching  his  wife  with  the  intentness  of  a 
wanderer  to  whom  no  natural  sign  is  negligeable,  saw  that 
she  had  taken  temporary  refuge  in  the  purpose  of  re 
nouncing  the  money.  If  both,  theoretically,  owned  the 
inefficacy  of  such  amends,  the  woman's  instinctive  sub- 
jectiveness  made  her  find  relief  in  this  crude  form  of  pen 
ance.  Glennard  saw  that  she  meant  to  live  as  frugally  as 
possible  till  what  she  deemed  their  debt  was  discharged; 
and  he  prayed  she  might  not  discover  how  far-reaching,  in 
its  merely  material  sense,  was  the  obligation  she  thus 
hoped  to  acquit.  Her  mind  was  fixed  on  the  sum  originally 
paid  for  the  letters,  and  this  he  knew  he  could  lay  aside  in 
a  year  or  two.  He  was  touched,  meanwhile,  by  the  spirit 
that  made  her  discard  the  petty  luxuries  which  she  re 
garded  as  the  sign  of  their  bondage.  Their  shared  renuncia 
tions  drew  her  nearer  to  him,  helped,  in  their  evidence  of 
her  helplessness,  to  restore  the  full  protecting  stature  of 
his  love.  And  still  they  did  not  speak. 

It  was  several  weeks  later  that,  one  afternoon  by  the 
drawing-room  fire,  she  handed  him  a  letter  that  she  had 
been  reading  when  he  entered. 

"I've  heard  from  Mr.  Flamel,"  she  said. 

It  was  as  though  a  latent  presence  had  become  visible 
to  both.  Glennard  took  the  letter  mechanically. 

"It's  from  Smyrna,"  she  said.  "Won't  you  read  it?" 

He  handed  it  back.  "You  can  tell  me  about  it — his 
hand's  so  illegible."  He  wandered  to  the  other  end  of  the 
[364] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

room  and  then  turned  and  stood  before  her.  "I  've  been 
thinking  of  writing  to  Flamel,"  he  said. 

She  looked  up. 

"There's  one  point,"  he  continued  slowly,  "that  I  ought 
to  clear  up.  I  told  him  you  'd  known  about  the  letters  all 
along;  for  a  long  time,  at  least;  and  I  saw  how  it  hurt  him. 
It  was  just  what  I  meant  to  do,  of  course;  but  I  can't  leave 
him  to  that  false  impression;  I  must  write  him." 

She  received  this  without  outward  movement,  but  he 
saw  that  the  depths  were  stirred.  At  length  she  returned 
in  a  hesitating  tone,  "  Why  do  you  call  it  a  false  impression  ? 
I  did  know." 

"Yes,  but  I  implied  you  did  n't  care." 

"Ah!" 

He  still  stood  looking  down  on  her.  "Don't  you  want  me 
to  set  that  right  ?  "  he  pursued. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  fixed  him  bravely.  "It  isn't 
necessary,"  she  said. 

Glennard  flushed  with  the  shock  of  the  retort;  then,  with 
a  gesture  of  comprehension,  "No,"  he  said,  "with  you  it 
could  n't  be;  but  I  might  still  set  myself  right." 

She  looked  at  him  gently.  "Don't  I,"  she  murmured,  "do 
that?" 

"In  being  yourself  merely?  Alas,  the  rehabilitation's 
too  complete !  You  make  me  seem — to  myself  even — what 
I  'm  not;  what  I  can  never  be.  I  can't,  at  times,  defend 
myself  from  the  delusion;  but  I  can  at  least  enlighten 
others." 

[365] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

The  flood  was  loosened,  and  kneeling  by  her  he  caught 
her  hands.  "Don't  you  see  that  it 's  become  an  obsession 
with  me  ?  That  if  I  could  strip  myself  down  to  the  last  lie 
— only  there  'd  always  be  another  one  left  under  it ! — and 
do  penance  naked  in  the  market-place,  I  should  at  least 
have  the  relief  of  easing  one  anguish  by  another?  Don't 
you  see  that  the  worst  of  my  torture  is  the  impossibility  of 
such  amends  ?  " 

Her  hands  lay  in  his  without  returning  pressure.  "Ah, 
poor  woman,  poor  woman,"  he  heard  her  sigh. 

"Don't  pity  her,  pity  me !  What  have  I  done  to  her  or 
to  you,  after  all  ?  You  're  both  inaccessible !  It  was  myself 
I  sold." 

He  took  an  abrupt  turn  away  from  her;  then  halted 
before  her  again.  "How  much  longer,"  he  burst  out,  "do 
you  suppose  you  can  stand  it  ?  You  've  been  magnificent, 
you  've  been  inspired,  but  what  's  the  use  ?  You  can't  wipe 
out  the  ignominy  of  it.  It 's  miserable  for  you  and  it  does 
her  no  good !" 

She  lifted  a  vivid  face.  "That's  the  thought  I  can't 
bear!"  she  cried. 

"What  thought?" 

"That  it  does  her  no  good — all  you  're  feeling,  all  you  're 
suffering.  Can  it  be  that  it  makes  no  difference?" 

He  avoided  her  challenging  glance.  "What 's  done  is 
done,"  he  muttered. 

"Is  it  ever,  quite,  I  wonder?"  she  mused.  He  made  no 
[  3661 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

answer  and  they  lapsed  into  one  of  the  pauses  that  are  a 
subterranean  channel  of  communication. 

It  was  she  who,  after  a  while,  began  to  speak,  with  a 
new  suffusing  diffidence  that  made  him  turn  a  roused  eye 
on  her. 

"Don't  they  say,"  she  asked,  feeling  her  way  as  in  a 
kind  of  tender  apprehensiveness,  "that  the  early  Chris 
tians,  instead  of  pulling  down  the  heathen  temples — the 
temples  of  the  unclean  gods — purified  them  by  turning 
them  to  their  own  uses  ?  I  've  always  thought  one  might  do 
that  with  one's  actions — the  actions  one  loathes  but  can't 
undo.  One  can  make,  I  mean,  a  wrong  the  door  to  other 
wrongs  or  an  impassable  wall  against  them.  .  ."  Her  voice 
wavered  on  the  word.  "We  can't  always  tear  down  the 
temples  we  've  built  to  the  unclean  gods,  but  we  can  put 
good  spirits  in  the  house  of  evil — the  spirits  of  mercy  and 
shame  and  understanding,  that  might  never  have  come 
to  us  if  we  had  n't  been  in  such  great  need.  .  ." 

She  moved  over  to  him  and  laid  a  hand  on  his.  His 
head  was  bent  and  he  did  not  change  his  attitude.  She  sat 
down  beside  him  without  speaking;  but  their  silences  were 
now  fertile  as  rain-clouds — they  quickened  the  seeds  of 
understanding. 

At  length  he  looked  up.  "I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "what 

spirits  have  come  to  live  in  the  house  of  evil  that  I  built — 

but  you  're  there  and  that 's  enough.  It 's  strange,"  he 

went  on  after  another  pause,  "she  wished  the  best  for  me 

[367] 


THE    TOUCHSTONE 

so  often,  and  now,  at  last,  it 's  through  her  that  it 's  come 
to  me.  But  for  her  I  should  n't  have  known  you — it 's 
through  her  that  I  've  found  you.  Sometimes — do  you 
know? — that  makes  it  hardest — makes  me  most  intoler 
able  to  myself.  Can't  you  see  that  it 's  the  worst  thing  I  've 
got  to  face  ?  I  sometimes  think  I  could  have  borne  it  bet 
ter  if  you  had  n't  understood  !  I  took  everything  from  her 
— everything — even  to  the  poor  shelter  of  loyalty  she  's 
trusted  in — the  only  thing  I  could  have  left  her ! — I  took 
everything  from  her,  I  deceived  her,  I  despoiled  her,  I 
destroyed  her — and  she  's  given  me  you  in  return !" 

His  wife's  cry  caught  him  up.  "It  is  n't  that  she  's 
given  me  to  you — it  is  that  she  's  given  you  to  yourself.'* 
She  leaned  to  him  as  though  swept  forward  on  a  wave  of 
pity.  "Don't  you  see,"  she  went  on,  as  his  eyes  hung  on 
her,  "that  that 's  the  gift  you  can't  escape  from,  the  debt 
you  're  pledged  to  acquit  ?  Don't  you  see  that  you  've 
never  before  been  what  she  thought  you,  and  that  now, 
so  wonderfully,  she  's  made  you  into  the  man  she  loved  ? 
That 's  worth  suffering  for,  worth  dying  for,  to  a  woman — 
that 's  the  gift  she  would  have  wished  to  give !" 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  "but  woe  to  him  by  whom  it  cometh. 
What  did  I  ever  give  her?" 

"The  happiness  of  giving,"  she  said. 

THE   END 

I"  3681 


U.C.  BEWCELEY  LIBRARIES 


C  0  D  D  b  b  5 1 D  7 


